UC-NRLF 


115    fiDfi 


m 


BROWNLEE-M 


LIBRARY 

OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 

1'lSf 

Class 


WAR-TIME  ECHOES 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 

HEROIC  AND  PATHETIC  9  f 
HUMOROUS  and  DIALECTIC 

®)       <§)       &       ®   OF   THE  «       @!       «!       @> 

SPANISH -AMERICAN   WAR 

^  $  Selected  and  arranged  by 
JAMES  HENRY  BROWNLEE,  M.A. 

Professor  of  Elocution  in  the  STATE 
NORMAL  SCHOOL,  CARBONDALE,  ILLI- 
NOIS, Compiler  of  " Martial  Recitations 
for  the  Veterans'  Camp  Fire."  %  %  % 


THE  WERNER  COMPANY 


NEW  YORK 


AKRON,  OHIO 


CHICAGO 


COPYRIGHT,  1898, 

BY 

THE  WERNER  COMPANY 


SELECTIONS 


220522 


WAR-TIME  ECHOES 

IN  VERSE 

HEROIC  AND  PATHETIC,  HUMOROUS  AND 
DIALECTIC,  OF  THE  ^ 

SPANISH-AMERICAN  WAR 


DEDICATED 

TO  THE 

GENEROUS  YOUTH 

OF  THE 
UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 

BY  THE 

COMPILER 


PREFACE 


THE  WAR  between  the  United  States  of  America 
and  Spain,  which  will  be  known  in  history  as 
the  War  for  Humanity,  lasted  only  one  hundred  and 
thirteen  days.  Though  brief,  it  was  glorious.  At  the 
call  of  the  President  for  volunteers,  a  million  men 
responded,  of  whom  only  one-fourth  was  required. 
Such  unanimity  of  patriotic  sentiment  had  never 
before  been  exhibited  in  our  history.  Party  spirit  was 
hushed;  men  remembered  only  that  they  were  Amer- 
icans. Those  who  wore  the  blue  and  those  who  wore 
the  gray  during  the  great  Civil  War,  now  touched 
fraternal  elbows  as  they  fell  into  rank  under  the 
beautiful  banner  of  their  common  country,  while  the 
carping  critics  of  Europe  ceased  for  a  time  their 
snarling  to  marvel  at  the  tremendous  spectacle. 

The  war  on  our  part  was  little  else  than  a  pan- 
orama of  successes;  and  every  loyal  American  heart 
swelled  with  pride  as  one  splendid  -scene  after  another 
was  unrolled.  The  victory  of  D'ewey  and  his-  sa-ilots 
m  Manila  Bay;  the  trapping  of  Cervera  by  Sampson 
and  Sehley  in  the  bay  '--"of  •'  -Santiago;-  the-  daring  deed 
'of  Hobson  and'  his  -men;-  the  bold  dash  of  -the  Spanish 
Admiral  for  the  open  sea,  and  the  utter  destruction 
of  his  powerful  fleet;  the  victory  of  Shafter  and  his 
heroic  soldiers  over  Total,  an4  the  fall  of  Santiago; 


x  PREFACE 

the  triumphal,  though  arrested  conquest  of  Porto  Rico 
by  Miles;  the  capture  of  Manila  by  Dewey  and  Mer- 
ritt, —  these  scenes  passed  before  us  in  bright  succes- 
sion, and  will  furnish  inspiring  themes  for  the  orator 
and  the  historian  throughout  coming  time. 

And  yet,  in  their  happiest  flights  of  description, 
the  orator  and  the  historian  may  not  hope  to  equal 
in  vividness  and  beauty  the  verbal  pictures  the  poets 
have  drawn  for  us.  In  this  volume,  which  is  a  com- 
panion to  MARTIAL  RECITATIONS,  every  phase  of  the 
short,  sharp  struggle  is  represented  by  its  best  poem. 
The  wreck  of  the  <(  Maine, w  the  farewell,  the  camp, 
the  field,  the  trench,  the  charge,  the  sea-fight,  the  hos- 
pital, the  soldier's  burial,  the  angels  of  the  Red  Cross, 
the  brave  wives  and  mothers,  the  crowning  victory,  the 
soldier's  return  and  his  welcome  home, — all  these  the 
poets  have  painted  for  us  in  words  that  fairly  sparkle, 
and  glow,  and  burn. 

The  interest  of  the  present  volume  springs,  of 
course,  from  the  selections  themselves;  and  praise,  if 
any  is  due,  belongs  to  the  poets  herein  represented, 
rather  than  to  the  compiler.  Borrowing  a  beautiful 
figure  from  Montaigne,  he  may  say, — (<  I  have  culled 
the  flowers  and  furnished  the  thread  that  binds  them 
together;  but  their  beauty  and  fragrance  is  their 
own.  ® 

This  volume,  then,  cannot  fail  in  interest  for  every 
patriot.  In  the  hope  that  it  may  receive  as  warm  a 
welcome  as  that  accorded  to  MARTIAL  RECITATIONS, 
and  that  it  may  foster  a  deeper  love  for  our  country 
whose  past  is  so  glorious  and  whose  future  is  so 
promising,  this  book  is  sent  forth  upon  its  mission. 

The  compiler's  thanks  are  due  to  the  authors  and 
publishers  who  have  accorded  him  permission  to  use 


PREFACE 


XI 


valuable  copyright  poems  as  well  as  to  some  with 
whom  he  has  not  been  able  to  communicate.  He 
desires  especially  to  acknowledge  his  obligations  to 
the  firm  of  Harper  &  Brothers,  Franklin  Square,  New 
York  City,  for  courtesies  extended.  In  so  far  as  it 
has  been  possible,  he  has  indicated  the  sources  of  the 
poems  in  a  note  at  the  close  of  each  selection. 

CARBONDALE,  ILL.,  November  10,  1898. 


CONTENTS 


PAGK 

Alphabet  of  the  War Boston   Transcript 17 

Cuba  Libre :  A  Prophecy Joaquin  Miller 19 

Gomez  to  Blanco Edna  Dean  Proctor 20 

On  the  Eve  of  War Danske  Dandridge 22 

A  Voice  from  the  West Alfred  Austin 23 

A  Vision  of  Reconcilement Edward  McQueen  Gray  ....  24 

Mansfield's  Eagle  Song Richard  Mansfield 27 

The  Saxons William  R.  Wood 28 

The  Show E.  Irenaeus  Stevenson 30 

War Cincinnati  Commercial  Tri- 
bune    31 

The  Awakening From  the  Aetna 33 

A  Voice  from  the  Wreck  of  the 

<(  Maine  » I.  Edgar  Jones 34 

«  Flood  the  Guncotton ! » Chaplain  D.  R.  Lowell,  D.D.  36 

Nemesis C.  H.  Crandall 38 

The  Rush  of  the  «  Oregon  » Arthur  Guiterman 39 

Union  Jack Minna  Irving 41 

Old  Glory Ironquill 43 

Spain New  York  Tribune  ........  44 

The  Smithville  Volunteer Edward  Singer 45 

An  Old  War-Horse Atlanta  Constitution 48 

Humors  of  War  Time Frank  L.  Stanton 49 

A  Mother's  Offering Madeline  S.  Bridges 50 

The  Recruit's  Soliloquy Cleveland  Leader 51 

Recruits Washington  Star 52 

A  Soldier's  Heart Baltimore  News 53 

When  Johnny  Gets  His  Gun  ....  John  Paul  Bocock 54 

The  Making  of  a  Soldier Frederick  Brush 56 

God  Bless  Our  Gallant  Boys  in 

Blue H.  H.  Van  Meter 57 

(xiii) 


XJV  CONTENTS 

PAG 

The  Old  Snare  Drum George  E.  Powell 5 

Our  Bonnie  Boys  in  Blue E.  Dorsey  Anderson 6 

The  Brave  at  Home Baltimore  News 6 

U.  S.  Spells  Us Anon 6 

At  the  Front Margaret  E.  Sangster 6 

The  Soldier's  Wife Elliott  Flower 6 

Northern  Pine  to  Southern  Pal- 
metto  Thomas  Sullivan 6 

Two  Voices                                       J  Atlanta  Constitution  \  fi 

•  \  Minneapolis  Journal  \  ' 

One  Beneath  Old  Glory From  Werner's  Magazine.  7 

Blue  and  Gray  Are  One William  Lightfoot  Visscher .  7 

War  Scars  are  Healed I.  Edgar  Jones 7 

«  Dixie  »  and  «  Yankee  Doodle  »  .  Lawrence  Porcher  Hext 7 

Together Frank  L.  Stanton 7 

Chant  of  the  New  Union Edmund  Russell 7 

The  Stream  O'  Freedom Amzi  Tibbals 7 

The  American  Song M.  J.  Savage 8 

The  New  Imperialism Robert  Burns  Wilson 8 

Old  Glory Rev.  William  A. Quayle,D.D.  8 

Hail  Our  Glorious  Banner Thomas  Sullivan 8 

The  Hero  of  Manila    Anon 8 

A  Song  for  Our  Fleets Will  Carleton 8 

Off  to  Sea Atlanta  Constitution 8 

Dewey S.  E.  Kiser 9 

Guam W.  J.   Lampton 9 

The  Hero  Down  Below Chicago  Times-Herald 9 

Hoi'  Dem  Philuppines George  V.  Hobart 9 

The  Shell Gustav  Kobbe g 

The  Farmer's  Boys T.  C.  Harbaugh 9 

The  Band  Played  On Cleveland  Plain  Dealer . .  .  10 

To  the  Powers John  Kendrick  Bangs 10 

The  Flag M.  W.  Stryker 10 

Ol'  Pecos  Bill The  Denver  Poet 10 

The  Islands  of  the  Sea George  E.  Woodberry 10 

The  Missouri  Mule St.  Louis  Globe-Democrat .  .  10 

The  Regular John  Jerome  Rooney u 

Rough  Riders'  Roundelay Private  Edwin  Emerson 1 1 

The  Yankee  Dude'll  Do S.  E.  Kiser n 

The  Yankee  Doodle  Soldier Denver  Times n 

(<  Apples  Finkey.^the  Water-Boy  .John  Jerome  Rooney n 


CONTENTS  xv 

PAGE 

The  Reg'lar  Army  Man Joe  Lincoln 120 

The  Regular  Army,  O Tom  Masson 122 

Before  Santiago Clinton  Scollard 123 

Wheeler  at  Santiago James  Lindsay  Gordon 125 

Rafferty  of  «F  » J.  L.  H 126 

Song  of  the  Colored  Trooper.  .  .  . Edward  F.  Burns 128 

The  Negro  Soldier B.  M.   Channing 129 

With  Teddy Anon 131 

Santiago's  Dead E.  S.  Roberts 132 

The  Soldier's  Burial  John  Jerome  Rooney 134 

Our  New  Heroes Sydney  Reid 135 

Mighty  Fine Harold  MacGrath 137 

Awk'ard  Ned The  Denver  Post 140 

The  Stalking  of  the  Sea  Wolves .  Charles  W.  Thompson 142 

Hobson  and  His  Men Thomas  E.  Smiley 143 

Hobson Ironquill 144 

The  Hobson- Arnold  Kiss St.  Louis  Post-Dispatch 146 

His  Blood  W.  D.  Fox 147 

Hymn  of  the  Santiago  Spaniard .  Cleveland  Leader 149 

The  Vesuvius Cleveland  Leader 150 

Survival  of  the  Fittest Anon 151 

The  Mosquito  Fleet James  Courtney  Challiss. .  .   152 

The  Eagle  and  the  Vulture Omaha  World-Herald 153 

A  Ballade  of  Blue  Jackets Joe  Lincoln 154 

The  Gnarly  Sailor  Man Anon 155 

Song  of  the  Battleship  Stokers  .  .Katharine  Coolidge 159 

Battle  Prayer Francis  H.  Tabor 160 

The  Man  Who  Cooks  the  Grub .  .  Anon 161 

Captain  Philip Charles  W.  Thompson 162 

Victory Sara  C.  Wilbur 163 

A  Song  of  Heroes Washington  Star 164 

The  Knight  in  Yellow D.  F.  Peffly 166 

The  Way  in  the  Navy John  Jerome  Rooney 168 

McKinley  to  Miles Phil.  Evening  Call 170 

Their  Daddie's  Kids Prof.  J.  H.  Brinkerhoff 171 

Ananias  Outdone Cleveland  Plain  Dealer.  ...  173 

Our  Soldiers'  Song David  Graham  Adee 174 

A  National  Hymn Detroit  News-Tribune 175 

At  the  Old  Stand Anon 176 

The  Red  Cross Grand  Army  Advocate 177 

The  Red  Cross  Army  Nurse  .  .  .  .  J.  Edmund  Vance  Cooke.  ...   178 


XVI 


CONTENTS 


My  War  Girl James  C.  Challiss 

The  Old  Man's  Boys The  Denver  Post 


Margaret  E.  Sangster 
.Cleveland  Leader. . .  . 
Baltimore  American  . 

,  Anon 

.  James  Stuart  Dixon .  . 


The  Absent  Boy 

The  One  Who  Won't  Be  There. 

The  Man  Behind  the  Tape 

An  Immortal  Crown 

We  Left  Him  on  the  Field 

Last  Taps Theodore  Roberts 

Peace  at  Last Mrs.  Mary^B.  Wingate . 

When  the  Boys  Come  Home  ...  John  Hay 

Git  'Er  Shoutin' , Detroit  Journal 

When  the  Flag  Comes  Home . .  .  Anon 

Pax  Vobiscum Thomas  E.  Smiley  .... 

A  Hymn  of  Victory James  Buckham 

The  New  United  States Edwin  L.  Sabin   

Te  Deum  Laudamus New  York  Tribune  .  .  . 

The  Jolly  Old  Flag Frank  L.  Stanton 

On  the  Sea  Throne F.  H.  Costello 

Chickamauga Baltimore  News 

Good  Times  A-Comin' Rev.  Old  Uncle  Scipio 

A  Prayer S.  Weir  Mitchell,  M.D. 

When    the    Great     Gray     Ships 

Come  in Guy  Wetmore  Carryl .  . 


PAGE 

.  179 

.  181 

..  182 

.  .  184 

..  185 

..  186 

..  187 

..  189 

..  190 

191 

K,  .  192 

.-  194 

..  I96 

.  .  198 

••  199 

.  .  2OO 

.  201 

.  .  2O2 

2O3 

.  .  2O4 

..  206 

• • 2O7 


ALPHABET    OF    THE    WAR. 


A  is  for  Admiral,  impassionate,  cold; 

Who  waits  for  instructions,  and  does  as  he's  told. 

B  stands  for  (<  Brooklyn, w  commanded  by  Schley; 

The  hottest  of  liners  he  takes  on  the  fly. 

C  is  for  Cuba,  a  tight  little  isle; 

To  get  which  we  may  have  to  fight  quite  a  while. 

D  is  —  yes,  Dewey,  a  teacher  of  Spanish; 

The  first  lesson  caused  all  his  pupils  to  vanish. 

E  stands  for  Evans,  who's  never  so  happy 

As   when    there's    a   chance    to    get    in    something 

(<  scrappy. w 

F  is  for  Freedom,  which  means  a  great  deal 
When  your  neck  has  been  under  a  vile  Spanish  heel. 
G  is  for  Germany,  whose  rude  employes 
Should    learn   better  manners  —  be    taught   to   say 

please. 

H  stands  for  Heroes,  on  land  and  on  sea, 
Who  laid  down  their  lives  for  their  friends'  liberty. 
I's  for  Insurgents,  who  holler  for  aid; 
Then  eat  up  the  rations  and  loaf  in  the  shade. 
J  is  for  Jones,  Davy  Jones,  if  you  will, 
Whose  lockers  we've  twice  had  occasion  to  fill. 
K  stands  for  King;   the  young  King  of  Spain, 
Who's    been    led    to    regret    what    happened    the 

<(  Maine. J> 

L  is  for  Long,  who  has  great  common  sense, 
And  in  whom  the  people  place  all  confidence. 


1 8 


M's  for  McKinley;  we  welcome  the  fact 

That  he's  handling  this  matter  with  very  great  tact. 

N  is  for  Nelson;  Nelson  A.  Miles, 

On  whom  we  depend  to  o'ercome  Spanish  wiles. 

O's  for  ^Oquendo,"  a  powerful  cruiser; 

But  out  on  a  big  hunt  they  managed  to  lose  her. 

P's  for  Porto  Rico;  the  place  had  some  forts, 

But  no  doubt  ere  this  they've  been  knocked  out  of 

sorts. 

Q  is  for  Queen,  most  unhappy  of  ladies, 
Who  fears,  perhaps  rightly,  our  visit  to  Cadiz. 
R's  for  Reporters;  they're  well  to  the  fore, 
But  they  mustn't  imagine  they're  running  this  war. 
S  is  for  Shafter,  a  man  of  great  girth, 
In  spite  of  which  fact  he  is  proving  his  worth. 
T  stands  for  Toral,  whose  acted  campaign 
Was  played  for  the  gallery  over  in  Spain. 
U  is  for  Union,  the  only  cement 
To  strengthen  a  state  and  disruptions  prevent. 
V's  for  <(  Vizcaya  w ;  she  made  a  great  show, 
But,  proving  a  nuisance,  we  sent  her  below. 
W  is  for  Wainwright,  whose  motto  must  be, 
<(The  greater  the  odds,  the  better  for  me." 
X  is  the  cross  that  is  put  against  Spain, 
And  means  that  she's  out  of  the  Blue  Book  again. 
Y's  for  the  Youngsters  that  sneaked  to  the  front, 
And  gave  their  poor  mammas  no  end  of  a  hunt. 
Z's  for  the  Zeal  that  has  hall-marked  this  fight; 
This  quality  wins  when  stamped  upon  right. 

—  Boston  Transcript. 


PATRIOTIC   POEMS  19 

CUBA    LIBRE. 

[A  Prophecy  Made  Eighteen  Years  Ago.] 

COMES  a  cry  from  Cuban  water, 

From  the  warm,  dusk  Antilles, 
From  the  lost  Atlanta's  daughter, 

Drowned  in  blood  as  drowned  in  seas; 
Comes  a  cry  of  purpled  anguish  — 

See  her  struggles,  hear  her  cries! 
Shall  she  live,  or  shall  she  languish  ? 

Shall  she  sink  or  shall  she  rise  ? 

Shall  she  rise  by  all  that's  holy! 

Shall  she  live  and  shall  she  last; 
Rise  as  we,  when  crushed  and  lonely, 

From  the  blackness  of  the  past  ? 
Bid  her  strike!  Lo!  It  is  written 

Blood  for  blood  and  life  for  life. 
Bid  her  smite  as  she  is  smitten; 

Stars  and  stripes  were  born  for  strife. 

Once  we  flashed  her  lights  of  freedom, 
Lights  that  dazzled  her  dark  eyes 

Till  she  could  but  yearning  heed  them, 
Reach  her  hands  and  try  to  rise. 

Then  they  stabbed  her,  choked  her,  drowned  her: 

Ah !  these  rustling  chains  that  bound  her ! 
Oh!  these  robbers  at  her  throat! 

And  the  land  that  forged  these  fetters  ? 
Ask  five  hundred  years  of  news. 


20  WAR-TIME   ECHOES 

Stake  and  thumbscrew  for  their  betters  ? 

Inquisitions!     Banished  Jews! 
Chains  and  slavery!     What  reminder 

Of  one  red  man  in  that  land  ? 
Why,  these  very  chains  that  bind  her 

Bound  Columbus,  foot  and  hand! 

She  shall  rise  as  rose  Columbus, 

From  his  chains,  from  shame  and  wrong 
Rise  as  morning,  matchless,  wondrous  — 

Rise  as  some  rich  morning  song  — 
Rise  a  ringing  song  and  story, 

Valor,  Love  personified  ? 
Stars  and  stripes  espouse  her  glory, 

Love  and  Liberty  allied. 

— Joaquin  Miller. 

*   *    * 


GOMEZ   TO    BLANCO. 


[In  answer  to  Blanco's  proposition,  January,  1898, 
that  for  riches  and  a  ship  to  carry  him  from 
Cuba,  he  should  abandon  the  struggle  for  liberty.] 


CAN  honor  for  gold  be  bartered  ?     Are  treason  and 

truth  at  one  ? 
How  dare  you  debase  my  purpose  with  a  proffer  that 

shames  the  sun! 
God  pardon  me  now  for  believing  a  just  thought  left 

to  Spain, 
And  help  us  to  grander  effort  our  glorious  object  to 

gain. 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS  21 

A  ship  to  bear  me  from  Cuba!     Riches  for  all  my 

life!  — 
Are  you  mad  ?     The  world  would  not   tempt  me  to 

turn  from  this  patriot  strife. 
I,  who  through  darkness  and  anguish,  see  ever  before 

me  shine 
Cuba  resplendent  with  freedom,  and  count  it  a  vision 

divine ! 
Do  you  think  I  forget  Francisco,  my  son,  the  soul  of 

my  soul, 
Slain  by  a  Spanish  assassin  ere  yet  we  were  nearing 

the  goal  ? 

Aye,  and  the  host  of  the  valiant,  slaughtered,  impris- 
oned, betrayed, 

While  the  peaks  and  the  palms  and  the  winds  alone 
know  where  their  bones  are  laid  ? 

But  the  isle  they  died  to  rescue,  their  reverent  shrine 
shall  be, 

And  her  circling  waves  will  lull  them  with  a  song  of 
victory. 

A  ship  for  some  far-off  haven  ?  'Tis  you  who  should 
seek  retreat 

Where  the  storms  of  indignation  and  scorn  less  fiercely 
beat! 

You  stand  in  the  lonely  shadow  of  the  pride  and  de- 
spair of  Spain; 

Before  me  hope  is  glowing;  and  the  best  of  earth  are 
fain 

To  hail  the  bright  flag  waving  above  our  Cuba  free ;  — 

God  bless  her  dauntless  heroes!  that  day  we  soon 
shall  see. 

—  Edna  Dean  Proctor. 


22  WAR-TIME  ECHOES 


ON    THE    EVE    OF    WAR. 


O  GOD  of  Battles,  who  art  still 

The  God  of  Love,  the  God  of  Rest, 

Subdue  Thy  people's  fiery  will, 

And  quell  the  passions  in  their  breast! 

Before  we  bathe  our  hands  in  blood 

We  lift  them  to  the  Holy  Rood. 

The  waiting  nations  hold  their  breath 
To  catch  the  dreadful  battle  cry; 

And  in  the  silence  as  of  death 
The  fateful  hours  go  softly  by. 

O  hear  Thy  people  where  they  pray, 

And  shrive  our  souls  before  the  fray! 

Before  the  sun  of  peace  shall  set, 
We  kneel  apart  a  solemn  while; 

Pity  the  eyes  with  sorrow  wet, 

But  pity  most  the  lips  that  smile. 

The  night  comes  fast;   we  hear  afar 

The  baying  of  the  wolves  of  war. 

Not  lightly,  O  not  lightly,  Lord, 
Let  this  our  awful  task  begin; 

Speak  from  Thy  throne  a  warning  word 
Above  the  angry  factions'  din. 

If  this  be  Thy  most  holy  will, 

Be  with  us  still — be  with  us  still! 

—  Danske  Dandridge,  in  The  Independent, 


PATRIOTIC   POEMS  23 

A  VOICE    FROM    THE  WEST. 


WHAT  is  the  voice  I  hear 

On  the  wind  of  the  western  sea? 
Sentinel,  listen  from  out  Cape  Clear, 
And  say  what  the  voice  may  be. 

Tis   a  proud,  free   people   calling   loud    to  a  people 
proud  and  free. 

And  it  says  to  them :   (<  Kinsman,  hail ! 

We  severed  have  been  too  long; 
Now  let  us  have  done  with  a  worn-out  tale, 

The  tale  of  an  ancient  wrong. 

And  our  friendship  last   long  as  love  doth  last,  and 
be  stronger  than  death  is  strong. w 

Answer  them,  sons  of  the  selfsame  race, 

And  blood  of  the  selfsame  clan, 
Let  us  speak  with  each  other,  face  to  face, 

And  answer  as  man  to  man, 

And  loyally  love  and  trust  each   other  as  none   but 
freemen  can. 

Now  fling  them  out  to  the  breeze, 

Shamrock,  thistle,  and  rose, 
And  the  Star  Spangled  Banner  unfurl  with  these, 

A  message  to  friends  and  foes, 

Wherever  the  sails  of  peace   are  seen  and  wherever 
the  war  wind  blows. 

A  message  to  bond  and  thrall  to  wake, 
For  wherever  we  come,  we  twain, 


24  WAR-TIME   ECHOES 

The  throne  of  the  tyrant  shall  rock  and  quake, 

And  his  menace  be  void  and  vain, 
For  you  are  lords  of  a  strong  young  land,  and  we  are 
lords  of  the  main. 

Yes,  this  is  the  voice  on  the  bluff  March  gale; 

<(  We  severed  have  been  too  long ; 
But  now  we  have  done  with  a  worn-out  tale, 

The  tale  of  an  ancient  wrong, 

And  our  friendship  last  long  as  love  doth  last  and  be 
stronger  than  death  is  strong. w 
— Alfred  Austin,  Poet-Laureate  of  England. 

*    *    * 

A  VISION    OF    RECONCILEMENT. 


From  (<  Harper's  Weekly."  Copyright,  1898,  Harper  and  Brothers. 


MEN  OF  THE  ANGLO-SAXON  RACE:  — 

ACROSS  a  thousand  leagues  of  sea 

Ye  may  not  parley  face  to  face, 
But  yet  your  generous  hearts  are  free 

To  interchange  a  generous  thought; 
Or  else  in  vain  your  splendid  seers 

Have  to  their  listening  brethren  sought 
To  teach  the  lesson  of  the  years. 

This  is  the  hour  of  human  stress; 

Surging  against  the  clanging  door 
Of  doom  bewildered  millions  press 

Together  on  a  dwindling  floor, 
Where  still  the  elemental  war 

Is  waged  between  the  Day  and  Night; 


PATRIOTIC   POEMS  25 

The  powers  that  aid,  the  powers  that  bar 
Their  struggling  fellows  from  the  light. 

Oppugnant  forces  on  the  earth 
Have  set  humanity  at  stake; 

Here  Liberty  is  choked  at  birth; 

There  Freedom  bids  the  soul  awake. 


All  are  involved,  for  none  may  shun 

That  issue,  and  mankind  can  mark 
How  some  are  turning  to  the  sun 

And  some  are  huddling  in  the  dark. 
And  some  are  trampling  others  down, 

And  some  are  hurling  others  back; 
Here  a  new  nation  wins  renown; 

There  drifts  a  dynasty  to  wrack. 
And  closer,  as  the  narrowing  space 

Drives  each  upon  the  other,  grows 
The  grip  of  wrestling  race  with  race, 

The  grapple  of  instinctive  foes. 

What  course  to  take  ?    What  cause  espouse  ? 

Self-interest  or  common  weal  ? 
Madman  or  saint  alone  avows 

What  steadier  intellects  but  feel. 

Yet,  by  the  things  that  make  you  great 

The  wrath  that  stirs  you  at  the  cry 
Of  freemen  overborne;  your  hate 

Of  wrong;  your  scorn  of  treachery, 
Ye  stand  engaged  at   Tyranny 

To  strike;  earth's  fallen  to  uplift; 
Are  ye  not  heirs  of  Liberty 

And  stewards  of  her  priceless  gift  ? 


26  WAR-TIME  ECHOES 

Tis  not  for  nothing  in  your  veins 

The  ichor  of  the  Viking  runs 
That  bids  you  firmly  grasp  the  reins 

Of  rule,  bequeathing  to  your  sons 
A  birthright  of  supremacy 

By  deep  deserving  strongly  stayed; 
No  germ  of  fatuous  ecstasy, 

But  on  the  prime  foundation  laid. 
Ye  are  the  vanguard  of  the  bright 

Battalions  of  progressive  Time; 
March  onward,  upward  to  the  light; 

Fulfil  your  destiny  sublime 
To  be  the  marshallers  of  Peace 

And  Progress  in  their  blest  career; 
From  Ignorance  to  wrest  release; 

To  vanquish  Enmity  and  Fear. 

Mine  eyes  may  not  behold  it,  but 

Some  day  shall  rise  a  nobly  planned 
Valhalla  where  with  Farragut 

Shall  Collingwood  and  Nelson  stand. 
The  stars  and  stripes  and  crosses  flaunt 

Their  mingled  blazons  through  the  dome 
Where  Wellington  shall  welcome  Grant, 

Sherman  and  Wolfe  shall  find  a  home. 
There,  Freedom's  sleepless  warder,  shall 

His  wings  a  mighty  Eagle  spread 
Above  that  fane;  within  that  hall 

A  Lion  guards  the  sacred  dead. 
And  highest  in  that  House  of  Fame 

Shall  stand  Virginia's  deathless  son; 
And  England  write  her  noblest  name 

After  the  name  of  Washington. 

—  Edward  McQueen  Gray. 


PATRIOTIC   POEMS  27 


MANSFIELD'S    EAGLE    SONG. 


THE  lioness  whelped  and  the  sturdy  cub 

Was  seized  by  an  eagle  and  carried  up 

And  homed  for  a  while  in  an  eagle's  nest, 

And  slept  for  a  while  on  an  eagle's  breast. 

And  the  eagle  taught  it  the  eagle's  song: 

(<  To  be  stanch  and  valiant  and  free  and  strong ! M 

The  lion  whelp  sprang  from  the  aerie  nest, 
From  the  lofty  crag  where  the  queen  birds  rest; 
He  fought  the  king  on  the  spreading  plain, 
And  drove  him  back  o'er  the  foaming  main. 

He  held  the  land  as  a  thrifty  chief, 
And  reared  his  cattle  and  reaped  his  sheaf. 
Nor  sought  the  help  of  a  foreign  hand, 
Yet  welcomed  all  to  his  own  free  land! 

Two  were  the  sons  that  the  country  bore 
To  the  northern  lakes  and  the  southern  shore, 
And  chivalry  dwelt  with  the  southern  son, 
And  industry  lived  with  the  northern  one. 

Tears  for  the  time  when  they  broke  and  fought! 
Tears  was  the  price  of  the  union  wrought! 
And  the  land  was  red  in  a  sea  of  blood, 
Where  brother  for  brother  had  swelled  the  flood! 

And  now  that  the  two  are  one  again, 
Behold  on  their  shield  the  word  —  refrain! 


28  WAR-TIME   ECHOES 

And  the  lion  cubs  twain  sing  the  eagle's  song; 
(( To  be  stanch  and  valiant  and  free  and  strong !  M 
For  the  eagle's  beak  and  the  lion's  paw, 
And  the  lion's  fangs  and  the  eagle's  claw, 
And  the  eagle's  swoop  and  the  lion's  might, 
And  the  lion's  leap  and  the  eagle's  sight 
Shall  guard  the  flag  with  the  word  "refrain," 
Now  that  the  two  are  one  again! 

Here's  to  a  cheer  for  the  Yankee  ships! 
And  <(  Well  done,  Sam !  w  from  the  mother's  lips ! 

—  Richard  Mansfield. 

*    *    * 

THE    SAXONS. 


WE  SING  the  fame  of  the  Saxon  name, 

And  the  spell  of  its  world- wide  power, 
Of  its  triumphs  vast  in  the  glorious  past, 

And  the  might  of  the  rising  hour; 
And  our  bosoms  glow,  for  we  proudly  know, 

With  the  flag  of  Right  unfurled, 
That  the  strength  and  skill  of  the  Saxon  will 

Is  bound  to  rule  the  world. 

And  we  glory  not  in  the  empty  thought 

That  the  Saxon  arm  is  strong. 
Nor  alone  to  know,  tho'  'tis  surely  so, 

That  the  seas  to  her  belong. 
But  this  our  pride,  with  Wrong  defied, 

And  the  sin-cloud  backward  hurled, 
That  the  word  of  God,  our  triumph  rod, 

Is  bound  to  rule  the  world. 


PATRIOTIC   POEMS  29 

In  days  of  yore  from  the  Saxon  shore 

Our  sea-born  fathers  came, 
They  conquered  then  by  the  might  of  men, 

And  sword,  and  spear,  and  flame; 
But  to  us  'tis  given  by  the  voice  of  heaven, 

With  the  peace  flag  far  unfurled, 
In  our  union's  might,  by  the  power  of  Right, 

To  rule,  'neath  God,  the  world. 

In  the  olden  time  there  were  deeds  sublime, 

And  dear-bought  victories  won; 
For  the  hearts  were  true  on  the  heaving  blue, 

Or  behind  the  fortress  gun; 
And  they  championed  Right  in  their  rising  might 

With  their  war-flags  old  unfurled; 
Yea,  Wrong  went  down  'neath  the  Saxon  frown, 

But  its  smile  shall  rule  the  world. 

And  perchance  of  old,  if  the  truth  be  told, 

There  were  brother  hearts  estranged; 
But  the  wound  is  healed  and  the  friendship  sealed, 

As  the  years  have  upward  ranged. 
Let  the  tale  of  wrong,  now  dead  so  long, 

With  the  old  war-flags  be  furled; 
For  a  peace  sublime,  in  the  coming  time, 

Is  bound  to  rule  the  world. 

'Tis  a  mighty  dower,  this  earth-wide  power, 

And  a  mighty  task  involves; 
With  our  hearts  steel-true,  let  us  hold  in  view 

The  might  of  our  high  resolves; 
Let  us  stand  for  right  in  our  race's  might, 

With  our  fearless  flag  unfurled; 
For  the  might  of  Love  from  our  God  above 

Is  bound  to  rule  the  world. 

—  William  R.   Wood  in  Montreal   Witness. 


30  WAR-TIME   ECHOES 

THE    SHOW. 


From  "Harper's  Weekly. *    Copyright,  1898,  Harper  and  Brothers. 


*  COME  in,  come  in ! }>  the  Showman  cries ; 

And  touts  with  clattering,  fleshless  jaws. 
(<  My  panorama  edifies, 

My  portraits  catch  even  Hell's  applause. 
I've  store  of  paintings  praised  Below, 

With  scenes  to  make  Friend  Satan  vain. 
But  none  such  mastery  can  show 

As  these  —  the  ghastly  art  of  Spain. 

(<  From  burning  homes,  from  screw  and  rack, 

See  Jewish  maids  and  graybeards  flee; 
With  branded  brow  and  livid  back, 

The  pillaged  Moors  attain  the  sea. 
And,  pray,  admire  these  dungeons  grim, 

That  stake,  those  robes  with  tongues  of  flame 
They  wrought  their  work  as  serving  Him 

A  Torquemada  dared  to  name. 

"Roll  on,  my  show!     Dark  Alva  here, 

My  apt  lieutenant,  sullen  stands  — 
Stranger  to  mercy  as  to  fear  — 

Apollyon  of  the  Netherlands. 
And  there,  toward  helpless  England's  shore, 

The  dread  Armada  glides,  ill-starred; 
My  harvest  had  been  thousands  more 

Had  Ireland's  reefs  forgot  their  guard! 

«  Ho,  for  the  New  World !     Knife  in  hand, 

Their  victims  gasping  at  their  feet, 
See  false  Menendez  and  his  band, 
Their  master-butchery  complete. 


PATRIOTIC   POEMS  31 

In  tortures  that  a  fiend  might  dread, 
Lo!  shrieking  Incas  gold  upyield. 

And  look!     The  Spanish  Main  runs  red, 
The  Spanish  pirates'  booty-field. 

(<  Now  note  what  horrors  choice  I  have ; 

The  Eastern  Indies'  story  rare. 
The  blazing  hut,  the  ravished  slave 

Define  the  Spaniard's  fostering  care. 
And,  next,  baptized  with  sister-name, 

The  Western  Isles  present  their  ring, 
By  Spanish  crime,  for  Spanish  shame, 

A  record  filled  to  festering! 

"And  last  I  show  thee,  blackened  star, 

Gem  of  the  Antilles'  coronet! 
Age,  thou  art  shamed!     Not  peace,  not  war, 

Hath  made  the  Spaniard  human  yet! 
Scourged  —  prostrate  —  with  thy  strangled  cry, 

I,  Death,  have  seemed  thy  friend  —  of  all! 
Despair  not!     In  the  darkening  sky 
Justice  and  vengeance  wait  to  fall ! }> 

—  E.  Irenceus  Stevenson. 

*  *  * 


WAR. 

WHAT  worse  you  ask  than  ruthless  war  — 
Sunk  ships,  stormed  cities,  states  down-hurled- 

The  thundrous  hammer-strokes  of  Thor 
That  crash  the  rock  ribs  of  the  world  ? 


32  WAR-TIME   ECHOES 

What  worse  than  horrid  war  ?    Oh,  cease 
The  coward  cry;  is  not  the  curse 

Of  vile  and  ignominious  peace 

Bought  with  the  price  of  honor,  worse  ? 

What  worse  than  war  ?     A  sullied  fame ; 

The  scoff  of  heroes  and  the  scorn 
Of  history  and  song;  the  shame  — 

The  taint  —  corrupting  sons  unborn. 

Better  is  war  than  sordid  gain 

Wrung  from  the  servile;  better  far 

Than  manhood  lost  and  virtue  slain, 
Is  war,  war,  everlasting  war! 

Alas!  I,  too,  lament  the  woe 

That  war  must  bring — the  blood,  the  tears: 
Yet  Right,  to  vanquish  Wrong,  I  know 

Must  oft  beat  pruning  hooks  to  spears. 

When  fallen  Liberty's  sweet  breast 

Throbs  bare  below  the  Spaniard's  knife, 

Pause  not  to  drool  of  worst  or  best  — 
First  save  the  bleeding  victim's  life. 

Two  strokes  sublime  Columbia's  hand 
Hath  dealt  in  war  —  one  stroke  to  save 

From  foreign  sway  our  native  land, 
One  stroke  to  free  the  negro  slave. 

Now,  once  again,  the  great  sword  awes 
The  despot  —  flames  o'er  land  and. sea  — 

A  volunteer  in  Cuba's  cause: 

Spain  falls  and  Cuba  rises  free! 

—  Cincinnati  Commercial-  Tribune. 


PATRIOTIC   POEMS  33 

» 

THE    AWAKENING. 


WE  HAVE  dreamed,  but  the  dream  is  ended; 

We  are  facing  the  world  awake; 
And  the  Past  and  the  Future  blended 

Make  true  what  the  ages  spake. 

'Tis  the  love  of  a  nation's  glory 

That  gleameth  to-day  as  then, 
When  the  deeds  of  an  epic  story 

Were  done  by  heroic  men. 

Could  we  dream,  with  a  people  crying 

For  aid  from  our  mighty  store; 
Could  we  dream,  with  a  million  dying 

Unfed  at  our  very  door  ? 

Could  we  dream,  while  the  sound  of  weeping, 

For  heroes  who  fell  betrayed, 
Was  heard  where  the  brave  lay  sleeping 

In  graves  that  were  newly  made  ? 

Nay,  the  shadows  and  visions  vanish, 
'Tis  honor,  not  peace  that  we  hold, 

While  over  the  flag  of  the  Spanish 
The  flag  of  the  free  is  unrolled. 

And  this  is  the  hour  of  the  doing, 
And  the  end  of  it  all  is  not  yet; 

But  even  our  love  is  renewing 
Of  liberty  —  lest  we  forget. 

—  From  the  Aetna. 


34  WAR-TIME  ECHOES 


A    VOICE    FROM    THE    WRECK    OF   THE 
"MAINE/ 


REMEMBER,  remember  the  <(  Maine, >}  but  not  for  cheap 

vengeance  or  hate, 
Because   it  is  right  that   the  patriot's  might,  with  a 

purpose  enduring  and  great, 
Should    see    and    decree    that   all    tyrants    should    be 

blotted  out  by  the  finger  of  fate. 

The  stricken  ship  went  to  her  doom,  her  braves  to 

their  death  in  the  deep, 
While  the  hand  of  some  coward  set   free  the   dread 

spark,  making  fatherless  stricken  ones  weep. 
But  the  heart  of  a  nation  awoke  to  their  woes,  and  its 

stern  justice  never  shall  sleep. 

From  out  the  steel  coffin  thus  made,  the   life   of   a 

people  shall  come  — 
The   corpses  of   sailors   protest,  though   to   dull   ears 

their  pale  lips  be  dumb  — 
And  out  from  that  silence  of  death  came  the  throb 

of  the  stirring  war  drum. 

The  steel  of  the  once  stately  ship  lies  low,  covered 

o'er  by  the  sea, 
But  the  steel  of  the  machetes  shall  flash,  and  their 

death-stroke  make  patriots  free; 
Not  vain  was  the  wreck  of  the  <(  Maine, »  when  Fate's 

forces  awoke  at  its  plea. 


PATRIOTIC   POEMS  35 

Each  rivet  which  rusts  is  a  bolt,  a  thunderbolt  stir- 
ring the  land, 

The  wreck  is  a  plea  against  wrong  which  the  sea 
whispers  low  to  the  sand, 

Or  thunders  in  anger  and  power,  with  the  force  of  a 
curse  or  command. 

And  our  neighboring  nation  awoke  from  the  ease  of 

its  prosperous  dream  — 
The  stars  blazed  anew  on  its  flag,  there  was  war  in 

its  eagle's  shrill  scream  — 
The  thunder  roared  out  from  its  guns,  the  lightnings 

flash  where  its  swords  gleam. 

No  longer  in  selfish  repose  does  the  giant  of  liberty 

lie, 
On  the  shores  of  Fair  Cuba  to-day  his  beacons  blaze 

up  to  the  sky, 
Where  minions  of  tyrants  at  bay  were  forced  to  do 

battle  and  die. 

And  the  few  sons  and  daughters  of  toil  whom  famine 

and  outrage  have  spared, 
And  the  warriors  of  freedom  who  there  the  might  of 

the  Spaniard  had  dared, 
Thanked   God   and   took   courage   anew  as   Columbia 

her  war  sinews  bared. 

So  Liberty  marches  apace  to  her  triumphs  majestic 
and  grand, 

The  voices  of  heralds  of  hope  ring  high  o'er  the  des- 
olate land, 

Glad-eyed  in  the  dawn  of  the  day  the  slaves  of  His- 
pania  stand. 


36  WAR-TIME   ECHOES 

Where  Dewey's  guns  bade  foes  begone  from  the  isles 

of  the  Philippine  Sea, 
Where  West  Indian  fetters  have  clanked  for  ages  their 

pitiful  plea, 
In   a  voice  wreathed  with   flame,  God   proclaims  the 

stricken  slaves  yet  shall  be  free. 

Remember   the   men   on   the    (<  Maine w ;    but   not   for 
cheap  vengeance  or  hate, 

Their  death  was  a  plea  to  which  God,  compassionate, 
loving,  and  great, 

Responded  and  bade  us  obey,  His  sons  and  His  serv- 
ants of  fate. 

—  /.  Edgar  Jones. 

*   *   * 


«  FLOOD    THE    GUN    COTTON. » 


<(  FLOOD  the  gun  cotton !  w    Stern  command, 
But  sterner  far  the  dire  demand. 

<(  Flood  the  gun  cotton ! }>  in  voice  clear, 
This  the  order  three  sailors  hear, 
On  the  quiv'ring  <(  Maine. w 

Already  one  shock,  echoing  loud, 
Shook  the  vessel,  majestic,  proud; 
While  parting  beams,  bursting  sides, 
Open  the  gates  to  flooding  tides, 
To  the  stricken  <c  Maine, )} 

Like  facing  .the;  gat^y  open:  wide,.  o: 

Of  roaring  Hades'  flaming  ti.de>-.  ;;;_£<.; 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS. 

To  obey  that  order,  and  go 
Down  through  the  hatch,  to  certain  woe, 
To  death  on  the  (<  Maine. w 

(<  Flood  the  gun  cotton ! >}     Will  these  three 
Obey  the  command,  though  it  be 
Certain  death  in  the  vessel's  hold  ? 
Craven  are  they,  or  heroes  bold, 
On  the  shattered  <(  Maine  w  ? 

See!     See!    Not  a  halt  or  a  frown! 
With  salute,  and  <(Aye,  aye,  sir!"  down 
They  speed  to  waiting  doom,  alack! 
For,  sick'ning  thought,  not  one  came  back 
From  the  sunken  <(  Maine. w 

(<  Heroes !»  you  say?    Yes,  every  one! 
Honors  immortal  each  has  won, 
By  quick  reply,  without  delay, 
And  saving  scores  of  lives  that  day 
From  death  on  the  "Maine." 

Would  that  the  record  kept  on  high, 
Such  deeds  heroic,  such  prompt  reply 
To  each  command  of  God,  might  show, 
As  marked  those  (<  tars w  who  went  below 
On  the  fated  (<  Maine  w ! 

—  Chaplain  D.  R.  Lowell,  D.D. 


38  WAR-TIME  ECHOES 

NEMESIS. 


THE        MAINE. 

SHE  glided  on  her  peaceful  quest, 

What  though  her  starry  flag  might  bear 

To  some  a  silent,  stern  behest, 

To  some  a  breath  of  freedom's  air; 

Then  in  her  berth  a  stately  guest 
Slept,  trustful,  in  that  alien  lair. 

But  what  are  bulkheads,  fashioned  well, 
And  what  are  sides  and  decks  of  steel, 

Or  cunning  dialhands  to  tell, 

Through  night  and  day,  of  woe  or  weal, 

When  human  hearts  can  league  with  hell 
And  sow  volcanoes  'neath  a  keel  ? 

So  by  a  deed  whose  blackness  made 

The  night  it  chose  seem  white  beside, 

Struck  in  the  dark  by  coward  blade, 

The  knightly  ((  Maine  w  leapt  once  and  died 

A  name  to  make  a  throne  afraid, 

A  wreck  that  moaned  beneath  the  tide  ! 


THE    u  OREGON. 


BUT  o'er  the  land  the  tidings  swept, 

And  death-cries  quivered  through  the  wire 

Down  in  the  hold  the  engines  leapt, 
The  coal  sprang  eager  to  the  fire, 


PATRIOTIC   POEMS  39 

And  never  slacked  and  never  slept 
The  sister  war  ship's  grim  desire! 

With  patient  throbs  that  never  wane 

A  continent's  long  coast  is  won; 
That  nearing  death-smoke  on  the  main 

Shall  teach  the  lesson  to  the  Don, 
That  he  who  strikes  a  blow  at  (<  Maine,  * 

Shall  reckon  yet  with  (<  Oregon  w ! 

Ah!   when  her  helm  goes  hard  aport, 
And  all  her  broadside  speaks  in  fire, 

And  from  the  proudly  floating  fort 

The  cheers  ring  out  with  brave  desire, 

That  sound  shall  shake  a  trembling  court 
And  thrill  Havana's  sunken  pyre! 

—  C.  H.  CrandalL 
*   *   * 

THE    RUSH    OF    THE    "OREGON. » 


THEY  held  her  south  to  Magellan's  mouth, 
Then  east  they  steered  her,  forth 

Through  the  farther  gate  of  the  crafty  strait, 
And  then  they  held  her  north. 

Six  thousand  miles  to  the  Indian  Isles! 

And  the  "Oregon"  rushed  home, 
Her  wake  a  swirl  of  jade  and  pearl, 

Her  bow  a  bend  of  foam. 

In  the  glimmered  gloom  of  the  engine  room 
There  was  joy  to  each  grimy  soul, 


40  WAR-TIME  ECHOES 

And  fainting  men  sprang  up  again 
And  heaped  the  blazing  coal. 

Good  need  was  there  to  go  wich  care; 

But  every  sailor  prayed 
Or  gun  for  gun  or  six  to  one 

To  meet  them,  unafraid. 

Her  goal  at  last!     With  joyous  blast 

She  hailed  the  welcoming  roar 
Of  hungry  sea  wolves  curved  along 

The  strong-hilled  Cuban  shore. 

Long  nights  went  by.     Her  beamed  eye 

Unwavering  searched  the  bay 
Where,  trapped  and  penned,  for  a  certain  end, 

The  Spanish  squadron  lay. 

Out  of  the  harbor  a  curl  of  smoke  — 

And  a  watchful  gun  rang  clear, 
Out  of  the  channel  the  squadron  broke 

Like  a  bevy  of  frightened  deer. 

Then     there     was    shouting    for    (( steam,    more 
steam,  * 

And  fires  glowed  white  and  red, 
And  guns  were  manned  and  ranges  planned, 

And  the  great  ships  leaped  ahead. 

Then  there  was  roaring  of  chorusing  guns, 

Shatter  of  shell  and  spray, 
And  who  but  the  rushing  (<  Oregon  w 

Was  fiercest  in  chase  and  fray? 

For  her  mighty  wake  was  a  seething  snake 
Her  bow  was  a  billow  of  foam; 


PATRIOTIC   POEMS  41 

Like  the  mailed  fist  of  an  angry  wight 
Her  shot  drove  crashing  home. 

Pride  of  the  Spanish  navy,  ho! 

Flee  like  a  hounded  beast! 
For  the  ship  of  the  Northwest  strikes  a  blow 

For  the  ship  of  the  far  Northeast. 

In  quivering  joy  she  surged  ahead, 

Aflame  with  flashing  bars, 
Till  down  sunk  the  Spaniard's  gold  and  red 

And  up  ran  the  Clustered  Stars. 

Desperate  dash  and  daring  rash 

Are  grand  in  peace  and  war, 
But  the  calm,  deep  hate  that  can  plan  and  wait, 

Is  deadlier  by  far. 

Glory  to  share?     Aye,  and  to  spare; 

But  the  chiefest  is  hers  by  right 
Of  a  rush  of  fourteen  thousand  miles 

For  the  chance  of  a  bitter  fight. 

—  Arthur  Gutter  man  in  New  York  Times. 


*   *   * 


UNION    JACK. 


ABOVE  the  peak  of  the  ship  it  flies, 
Between  the  blue  of  the  seas  and  skies; 
The  sailor's  pride,  and  the  sailor's  shroud. 
It  sweeps  the  edge  of  the  silver  cloud, 
It  feels  the  wing  of  the-  albatross, 
The  loop  of  the  lightning's  fiery  floss, 


42  WAR-TIME  ECHOES 

And  the  ocean  spray  and  the  tempest  rack 
Are  caught  in  the  folds  of  the  Union  Jack. 

The  boy  has  turned  from  the  lights  of  home 
To  gaze  away  o'er  the  sheeted  foam; 
Where  the  flag  of  the  rover  ripples  dark 
From  stately  cruiser  or  saucy  bark. 
His  pulses  thrill  to  the  smell  of  tar, 
And  the  dip  and  the  dance  of  a  slender  spar. 
Though  the  waves  are  sullen,  and  skies  are  black, 
He  follows  the  stars  of  the   Union  Jack. 

In  the  freshening  winds  of  the  early  morn, 

The  sailor  lad  to  the  deck  is  borne ; 

Sewed  in  a  sail  for  a  winding  sheet, 

With  a  cannon  ball  at  the  head  and  feet, 

And  a  murmured  prayer   from  the  captain's  lip, 

He  plunges  down  from  the  speeding  ship 

To  a  coral  grave  in  her  shining  track, 

With  a  pall  and  a  shroud  of  the  Union  Jack. 

It  is  woven  through  with  the  pain  and  strife, 
The  sorrows  and  joys  of  a  sailor's  life; 
Dark  with  the  blue  of  the  lonely  deep, 
Bright  with  the  stars  that  never  sleep. 
The  salty  breath  of  the  brine  it  holds; 
The  smoke  of  battle  has  dimmed  its  folds, 
And  around  the  seas  of  the  world  and  back 
Glimmer  the  stars  of  the  Union  Jack. 

—  Minna  Irving. 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS  43 

OLD    GLORY. 


FLAG  of  a  thousand  battles, 
Beautiful  flag  of  the  free; 

Waving  from  lake  to  ocean, 
Waving  from  sea  to  sea; 

Outward  and  seaward  ever, 

Daring  the  restless  wave; 
Upward  and  skyward  ever, 

Pride  of  the  true  and  brave. 

i 

Old  Glory,  Old  Glory,  the  world  awaits  thy  story, 
Float  on,  float  ever  on,  o'er  land  and  sea, 

Old  Glory,  Old  Glory,  the  world  awaits  thy  story; 
Float  on,  float  on,  thou  emblem  of  the  free. 

Flag  of  a  thousand  battles, 
Cresting  the  billows  of  fire; 

Whelming  established  evils, 
Raising  the  lowly  higher; 

Challenging  ancient  error, 

Silencing  tyranny  dumb, 
Gladdening  and  inspiring 

Hope  for  the  years  to  come! 


44  WAR-TIME:  ECHOES 

Old  Glory,  Old  Glory,  the  world  awaits  thy  story; 

Float  on,  float  ever  on,  o'er  land  and  sea; 
Old  Glory,  Old  Glory,  the  world  awaits  thy  story; 

Float  on,  float  on,  thou  emblem  of  the  free. 

—  Iron  quill. 

*    *    * 

SPAIN. 


A  SCARRED  old  snarling  lion,  with  scraggy,  tattered 
mane, 

His  claws  and  teeth  all  broken,  lies  the  ancient  realm 
of  Spain; 

With  the  thirst  for  blood  still  on  him,  and  still  with 
hungry  maw, 

He  rends  poor  bleeding  Cuba,  prostrate  there  beneath 
his  paw. 

He's  a  fierce  and  famed  man-eater,  and  from  early 
days  of  yore, 

Has  ravaged  many  an  island,  wasted  many  a  teem- 
ing shore, 

And  the  victims  number  millions  whom  his  strength 
has  overpowered, 

Whom  with  ravening,  bloody  slaughter  he  has  man- 
gled and  devoured; 

But  his  roar  grows  faint  and  hollow,  and  a  hunter 
from  the  West 

Will  snatch  away  fair  Cuba,  with  her  torn  and  bleed- 
ing breast, 

And  send  him  howling,  limping,  reviled  of  gods  and 
men, 

Back    to    growl,    midst    bones    and    darkness,    in    his 

mediaeval  den. 

—  New   York   Tribune. 


PATRIOTIC   POEMS  45 


THE    SMITHVILLE    VOLUNTEER. 


THAT    feller   there    who's    sunburnt    so  ?     You    don't 

know  him,  you  say. 

It's  mighty  evident,  my  friend,  you  jist  arrived  to-day. 
(<  Corn  Stalk's  *  the  name   he  goes   by,  lives  jist   up 

the  road  a  bit. 
That  bandage  'round  his  arm?     Why,  there  is  where 

the  Mauser  hit. 
You   want  to  git  acquainted  ?     Well,  I    'low   that   he 

won't  keer. 
I'm    rather    proud,  myself,  to    know    the    Smithville 

volunteer. 

Know  him?  Sence  he  wuz  a  kid  —  the  Smithville 
folks,  you  see, 

Ain't  much  on  makin'  when  it  comes  to  makin'  his- 
tory. 

O'  course,  they're  great  on  thinkin',  and  they  wuzn't 
ary  one 

But  what  knowed  jist  adzackly  how  the  fightin'  should 
be  done, 

'Cept  "Corn  Stalk »  —  he  admitted  that  he  didn't 
know  or  keer  — 

'P'r'aps  that  is  the  reason  why  he's  Smith ville's 
volunteer. 

No,  didn't    come    o'  fightin'    stock — his    daddy    alltis 

took 
To"  "Cooir-  dogs  —  whefr  he  didn't  he  wuz  baitin' .  up  a 

hook;  -.^.;  ;;->:/ 


46  WAR-TIME   ECHOES 

En  <(  Corn  Stalk >}  had  a  leetle  hankerin'  fer  coon 
dogs,  too; 

But  it  hadn't  gone  so  fur,  you  see,  that  it  had  gone 
clean  thro'. 

He  jist  stepped  on  the  fast  express  —  the  one  that 
fetched  you  here  — 

En  went  up  en  enlisted  ez  the  Smithville  volun- 
teer. 

We   kinder   smiled    about   it  —  we    wuz    there   to    see 

him  start. 
The    idee    of   him    fightin' !     Why,  there    wuzn't    ary 

part 
()'    fightin'    in    him  —  tender-hearted    cuss    ez    ever 

wuz. 
One  day  his  folks  went  hungry  fer  a  Sunday  dinner, 

cuz 
He  wouldn't  kill  the  chicken  —  so  you   see  we  didn't 

keer 
To  lay  claim  to  a  hero  in  the  Smithville  volunteer. 

We   had   purt'   nigh    fergot    him,   'till    the    news   got 

spread  aroun' 
That  there    wuz    another   hero   that   wuz   born   right 

here  in  town. 
No  name  wuz  mentioned,  but  they  said  that  he  wuz 

tall  en  slim, 
En    homely    ez    a   worter   dog  —  we    knowed   that   it 

wuz  him. 
En  when  we  heerd  his  hair  wuz  red,  the  fack  wuz 

mighty  clear, 
We  knowed  ez   sure   ez  blazes   'twas  the   Smithville 

volunteer.  ; 


PATRIOTIC    POEMS  47 

His  arm?     It's  hangin'  loose,  you   see  —  he   got   that 

the  fust  day. 
Ez  I  said,  a   Mauser   came  along — his   arm   wuz   in 

the  way. 
They  ordered  him  to  fall  back  to  the  rear,  but  nary 

fall; 

He  jist  jumped  in  the  fightin'  line  a-leadin'  of  'em  all. 
They  say  the  fellers  kinder  stopped  their  fightin'  fur 

to  cheer. 
That    wuzn't    bad,    you    understan',    fer    Smithville's 

volunteer. 


The  smoke  wuz  all  aroun'  him  up  the  hills  in  clouds 
o'  blue. 

They  knowed  'twuz  him,  cuz  they  could  see  his  red 
hair  gleamin'  thro'. 

They  seen  him  fightin'  all  alone,  en  that's  jist  why 
the  air 

Along  the  fightin'  line  jist  rolled  with  cheers  a-ringin' 
there. 

Yes,  that's  him  yer  a-lookin'  at  —  the  very  same  —  en 
we're 

A-bustin'  out  with  honor  fer  the  Smithville  volun- 
teer. 


There  wuz  a  lot  o'  fellers  that  fit  jist  ez  brave  that 

day; 
The  country's  loaded  with  'em,  ez  I'm  mighty  proud 

to  say. 
It  wuzn't  much  —  but  "Corn  Stalk  B  —  well,  we  never 

thought  that  he 
Would   start  the  fellers  cheerin'  —  didn't  know  him, 

you  kin  see. 


48  WAR-TIME  ECHOES 

You  want  to  git   acquainted?     Well,  I    'low   that   he 

won't  keer, 
So    come    along    en    shake    the    han'    o'    Smith ville's 

volunteer. 

—  Edward  Singer,  in  Cleveland  Plain  Dealer. 

*   *   * 
AN    OLD    WAR-HORSE. 


HE  GITS  roun'  now  on  jest  one  peg 

Ter  beat  the  very  Ian'! 
Thank  God,  he's  only  got  one  leg — 

They  won't  take  my  ol'  man. 
(He  lost  that  leg  in  our  last  war, 
But  I  could  never  tell  whut  fer!) 

I  sets  an'  sees  him  hobblin'  roun'  — 
They's  sojers  passin'  through, 

An'  (<  Dixie 's®  wakin'  up  the  town; 
An'  « Yankee  Doodle/*  too. 

I  hears  him  holler :   <(  Hip,  hooray !  * 
(Thank  God,  they  can't  take  him  away!) 

He  seen  his  fightin'  days;  he  went 
With  Jackson  an'  with  Lee; 

An'  now  he's  come  ter  be  content 
Ter  set  roun'  home  with  me. 

He's  lost  one  leg.    That's  gone  fer  shore 

Thank  God,  he'll  never  lose  no  more! 

But  when  the  ban'  plays  (<  Dixie  w  —  My ! 
It  sets  him  wild  ag'in! 


PATRIOTIC   POEMS  49 

He  cheers  the  boys  a-trompin*  by, 

An*  wants  ter  j'ine  in! 
But  I—  I  sez:  «  Come,  that'll  do! 
They  don't  want  one:leg  folks  like  you." 

So  let  'em  fight  from  left  ter  right 

All  over  sea  an'  Ian'; 
I  thank  the  Lord  by  day  an'  night 

They  won't  take  my  ol'  man! 
He's  lost  one  leg.    That's  gone  fer  shore  — 
Thank  God,  he'll  never  lose  no  more! 

—  Atlanta  Constitution. 


HUMORS    OF    WAR    TIME. 


THE     RECRUIT. 


DEY  'list  me  in  de  army, 

Dey  marchin'  me  away; 
I  gwine  'long  ter  Cuba 

Whar  all  de  Spaniels  stay. 

My  chillun,  don't  you  cry  fer  me  — 
My  wife  tu'n  loose  my  han'! 

I  gwine  ter  set  de  Cubans  free  — 
I'm  a  sojer  —  sojer  man! 

My  musket  on  my  shoulder. 

My  canteen  by  my  side; 
I  wish  you  ax  de  guvment 

Ter  gimme  a  mule  to  ride! 

—  Frank  L.  Stanton. 


50  WAR-TIME   ECHOES 

A    MOTHER'S    OFFERING 


Go,  AT  thy  country's  call, 
Whatever  gentle  bonds  may  hold  thee  here, 
Whatever  tender  claims  may  seem  more  dear, 

Thy  duty  — first  of  all. 

Go!   And  God  guard  thy  way  — 
Through  all  the  dangers  of  the  night, 
Through  pain  and  peril  —  to  the  dawning  light 

Of  peaceful  day. 

Go!    Thy  young  heart  is  brave, 
Battle  for  right  with  all  thy  strength  and  will, 
Shouldst  thou  not  triumph,  thou  at  least  can  fill 

A  soldier's  grave. 

Go!    If  the  cause  be  won, 
On  the  bright  record  free  of  stain  or  blot 
Thy  name  shall  shine  forever;  but  if  not, 

God's  will  be  done! 

Go!    I  can  say  adieu 
As  gladly  as  a  greeting  home  to  thee, 
And  look  my  last  through  smiles,  if  thou  wilt  be 

Firm,  brave,  and  true. 

Go!  my  one  child!  my  joy  — 
Unto  his  country  for  whatever  fate, 
By  these  last  tears,  O  Heaven!    I  consecrate 

My  only  boy! 

—  Madeline  S.  Bridges,  in  Leslie's    Weekly. 


PATRIOTIC   POEMS  51 

THE    RECRUIT'S   SOLILOQUY. 

I  REMEMBER,  I  remember, 

How  I  used  to  sit  and  scold 
When,  on  getting  down  to  breakfast, 

I  would  find  the  coffee  cold; 
How  I  used  to  turn  my  nose  up 

If  the  steak  was  done  too  rare  — 
But,  oh,  for  home  and  mother, 

And  the  dear  old  bill  of  fare. 

I  remember,  I  remember, 

How  I  always  would  upbraid 
Myself  for  eating  rarebits 

That  my  little  sweetheart  made! 
How  I  used  to  worry  over 

My  digestion  night  and  day, 
And  the  pills  I  used  to  punish 

To  drive  fancied  ills  away. 

I  remember,  I  remember, 

How  I  used  to  sit  and  scoff, 
When  I  fancied  that  the  butter 

Must  be  «just  a  little  off"; 
How  I  scorned  the  lowly  biscuits 

That  my  sister  used  to  make ! 
And  the  things  I  said  concerning 

Her  attempts  at  jelly  cake! 

Oh,  it  may  be  childish  weakness 

That  possesses  me,  but  I 
Would  give  a  whole  month's  wages 

For  One  piece  of  mother's  pie, 


52  WAR-TIME   ECHOES 

And  I  think  that  I'd  be  willing 
To  walk  twenty  miles  to-day 

Just  for  one  of  those  dear  doughnuts 
That  I  used  to  throw  away. 

—  Cleveland  Leader. 
*   *   * 

RECRUITS. 

THE  old  disputes  are  passed  away; 

But  there  are  heroes  still 
,    As  bold  as  they  to  seek  the  fray 

An'  feel  the  battle  thrill. 
Reprove  their  hungerin'  for  fame  — 

But  own,  when  all  is  done, 
That  boys  of  '98*5  the  same 
As  boys  of  '6 1. 

It  ain't  no  use  ter  stan'  an'  chide, 

When  war  is  in  the  air. 
You  waste  yer  efforts  to  deride 

Their  talk  of  bein'  there. 
Remember,  when  ye  sort  o'  blame 

The  way  their  feelin's  run, 
That  boys  of  '98*5  the  same 
As  boys  of  '6 1. 

It  makes  ye  sad  ter  see  them  chaps 

So  eager  fur  a  foe, 
'Twould  make  ye  sorryer,  perhaps, 

If  they  were  'fraid  ter  go. 
Ye  tell  'em  war's  a  dang'rous  game; 

That  murder's  in  each  gun  — 
But  boys  of  '98*5  the  same 

As  boys  of  '6 1. 
...,       ..; ,...,       ^Washington  Star. 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS  53 

A    SOLDIER'S    HEART. 

WHERE  is  the  heart  of  a  soldier, 

His  thought,  his  hope,  and  his  dream, 
When  the  rifles  ring  and  the  bullets  sing 

And  the  flashing  sabres  gleam  ? 
Oh!  not  in  the  field  of  battle, 

But  far  and  far  away, 
His  heart  is  living  the  old,  old  hopes, 

While  his  sword  is  red  in  the  fray. 

Where  is  the  heart  of  a  soldier, 

And  what  do  the  bugles  wake, 
And  what  does  the  roar  of  the  cannon  mean 

When  the  hills  beneath  them  shake  ? 
Oh!  not  for  him  the  glory, 

And  the  dash  and  crash  of  war, 
But  his  heart  is  away  on  a  mission  gay 

Where  they  hear  no  cannon  roar! 

And  there  is  the  heart  of  a  soldier  — 

A  little  home  on  the  hill, 
A  white-faced  woman,  a  little  child, 

That  stand  by  the  window-sill; 
A  little  song  and  a  little  prayer, 

And  a  wonder  in  the  face, 
And  a  (<  God  save  papa  and  bring  him  back 

In  the  goodness  of  Thy  grace !  w 

And  there  is  the  heart  of  a  soldier  — 

Not  on  the  field  of  fight, 
But  steeped  in  the  dream  of  a  saddened  home 

Where  a  window  keeps  its  light, 


54  WAR-TIME   ECHOES 

That  a  soldier's  feet  may  keep  the  path 
And  his  way  may  homeward  lead, 

When  under  the  flag  of  the  freedom -land 
He  has  wrought  the  hero's  deed. 

Yea,  there  is  the  heart  of  a  soldier, 

Where  wife  and  baby  are. 
Though  his  eyes  and  his  will  may  follow 

The  light  of  the  battle  star; 
Though  his  hand  may  swing  the  sabre, 

And  his  bayonet  charge  the  foe, 
The  soldier's  heart  is  away,  away, 

In  the  home  where  they  miss  him  so! 

—  Baltimore  News. 


WHEN    JOHNNY    GETS    HIS    GUN. 


WHEN  Uncle  Sam  calls  out  his  boys 

To  go  and  fight  for  him, 
They  drop  their  books  and  tools  and  toys 

To  get  in  fighting  trim; 
They  leave  their  farms  to  shoulder  arms, 

From  the  shops  and  the  streets  they  come, 
To  the  rat-tat-tat,  and  the  rat-tat-tat, 

The  beat  of  the  rolling  drum. 

With  its  — 

Johnny  get  your   gun,  get  your  gun,  gun, 

gun,  gun; 
You,  too,  Johann,  with  your  sword  and  your 

song, 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS  55 

Come  along  Jan,  and  you,  Giovan', 
Jean  and  Ivan,  come  along,  come  along, 
Come  along,  come  along,  come  along! 

From  North  and  South  and  East  and  West, 

All  of  them  boys  in  blue, 
They  fight  for  the  flag  that  they  now  love  best, 

No  matter  what  flag  they  knew; 
With  a  joyful  shout  they  march  away, 

Not  as  the  driven  dumb, 
Brothers  in  deed  and  in  arms  are  they, 

As  they  follow  the  rolling  drum. 

Each  rat-tat-tat  of  the  rolling  beat 

Is  a  heart-beat  all  their  own, 
They  feel  a  music  in  their  feet 

That  they  never  yet  have  known; 
They  walk  in  the  air,  and  glittering  there 

See  medals  and  swords  for  some  — 
And  never  a  soul  in  that  clamorous  roll 

Hears  the  beat  of  a  muffled  drum. 

For  its  — 

Johnny   get   you    gun,   get    your   gun,   gun, 

gun,  gun, 
You,  too,  Johann    with  your  sword  and  your 

song, 

Come  along  Jan,  and  you,  Giovan', 
Jean  and  Ivan,  come  along,  come  along, 
Come  along,  come  along,  come  along! 

—  John  Paul  Bocock,  in  the  New   York  Sun. 


56  WAR-TIME  ECHOES 

THE    MAKING    OF    A    SOLDIER. 

JOE  JERRY  hoed  in  a  stony  field, 

Under  a  sweltering  sun. 
The  boy  and  the  rock  and  the  native  weed 
Fought  for  the  life  in  a  battered  seed, 

And  the  struggle  was  just  begun. 

<(  Get  out  of  the  mud  and  follow  me, w 
Said  the  man  with  the  better  clothes. 

<(  Against    you    are   vermin    and    drought    and 
frost ; 

You  will  anger  nature  with  labor  lost  — 
Come  where  a  fair  wind  blows." 

But  the  boy  digged  on  in  the  stony  field, 
With  the  struggle  barely  begun. 

(<  I  put  the  seed  in  this  ground,"  said  he; 

<(  I  think  I  had  better  stay  and  see 
Whatever  may  be  done." 

Joe  Jerry  quarried  and  placed  the  stones, 

And  fitted  the  timbers  true. 
Then  his  neighbors  came,  with  fevered  eyes; 
<(Gold  —  pans  of  gold  —  just  there  it  lies! 

Shall  we  wait  a  day  for  you  ?" 

A  soft  voice  rifted  the  evening  calm, 

Singing  the  death  of  day, 
A  tired  child  came  and  went  with  a  kiss; 
(<  I  have  a  wife  and  a  home  —  and  this; 

I  think  I  had  better  stay." 


PATRIOTIC   POEMS  57 

<(  War!  On  to  war!  w  —  and  the  cry  came  near  — 
<(  There  is  honor,  or  fame,  for  all ! w 

(<  I-  have  a  dying  wife  and  these ; 

I  shall  stay  with  them  if  God  so  please. w 
But  he  went  at  the  second  call. 

«  Come  on !  »  they  cried.     «  It's  death  to  wait !  » 

His  face  was  bleeding  and  grim; 
He  picked  a  rifle  out  of  the  dirt 
And  answered  simply:  "The  captain's  hurt, 
I  think  I'll  stay  with  him." 

—  Frederick  Brush,  in  the  New   York  Sun. 


*   *   * 


GOD  BLESS  OUR  GALLANT  BOYS  IN  BLUE 


THEY'RE  marching  o'er  the  sunny  land, 
They're  sweeping  o'er  the  surging  sea, 

Our  brothers  true,  as  brave  a  band, 
As  ever  fought  to  make  men  free. 

Our  own  dear  lads,  so  brave  and  true  — 

God  bless  our  gallant  boys  in  blue! 

Our  hearts  go  with  them,  as  they  go, 
Our  prayers  to  God  for  them  arise, 

Our  songs  are  choked  for  tears  that  flow, 
And  blinded  are  our  weeping  eyes. 

Our  own  dear  lads,  so  brave  and  true  — 

God  bless  our  gallant  boys  in  blue! 

O  bless  them  in  the  dreary   camp, 

So  far  away  from  friends  and  home. 


58  WAR-TIME   ECHOES 

O  bless  them  on  the  weary  tramp, 

Where  e'er  their  wandering  feet  may  roam, 
Our  own  dear  lads,  so  brave  and  true  — 
God  bless  our  gallant  boys  in  blue! 

O  bless  them  on  the  rolling  wave, 
Speeding  afar  from  native  land, 

From  dangers  seen  and  unseen  save, 
And  bring  them  back  a  victor  band. 

Our  own  dear  lads,  so  brave  and  true  — 

God  bless  our  gallant  boys  in  blue! 

O  guard  them  in  the  battle's  storm, 

On  bloody  deck  or  gory  field, 
O  be  Thou  there  to  each  loved  form, 

O  Lord,  our  God,  their  strength  and  shield. 
Our  own  dear  lads,  so  brave  and  true  — 
God  bless  our  gallant  boys  in  blue! 

God  bless  the  girls  they've  left  behind, 
Our  own  dear  girls,  so  sweet  and  true, 

Though  out  of  sight  ne'er  out  of  mind, 
Of  those  who  wear  our  warrior's  blue. 

God  bless  our  bonnie  girls  so  true  — 

Who  love  our  gallant  boys  in  blue! 

God  bless  their  mothers  as  they  weep, 

Their  lonely  wives  who  watch  and  pray, 
Beside  their  blessed  babes  who  sleep, 
And  dream  of  dear  ones  far  away, 
God  bless  them  all,  so  brave  and  true  — 
Their  dear  ones  and  our  boys  in  blue. 

—  H,  H.   Van  Meter. 


PATRIOTIC   POEMS  59 

THE    OLD    SNARE    DRUM. 


IT'S   yourn,  my  boys,  the  yaller  horn,  ter   toot  it   if 

you  will; 
But  give   ter   me    the   old   snare   drum    ter   lead   the 

column  still; 
Aye,  bring    the    war-worn   drumsticks    back   ter   roll 

the  reveille; 
Go  fetch  the  fife,  the  same  ole  fife,  the  fife  that  used 

to  be. 

An'  while  the   breezes   fan    aloft   the   ole    red,  white 

and  blue, 
Jes'   make   the  footsteps  young  again   with  <(  Yankee 

Doodle  Doo!» 
The  same  old  drum  that  led  the  blue,  the  same  that 

led  the  gray  — 
That  sorter  cheered  us  while  it  soothed  the  mother's 

tears  away. 

Yer  bugle  may  do  jes'  as  well  —  Ole   Glory   nod   as 

neat  — 
Yet   footsteps   seem    ter    miss   somethin'    a    marchin' 

down  the  street. 
The  old  feet  sorter  seem  to  lag,  the  head  don't  soar 

so  high, 
An'  som'ers  in  my  bosom  heaves  a  humsick  kind  o' 

sigh. 

Yer  might's   well  call  a  petticoat  the  old  red,  white 

and  blue, 
As    toot    a   yaller    whistle    fer    ole    (<  Yankee    Doodle 

Doo.» 


60;  WAR-TIME   ECHOES 

Then   give   us   back   the    ole-time    drum    our   fathers 

used  to  beat, 
An*  hear   that   voice   o'  freedom   call   our   might   an' 

manhood  neat. 

An'  when  Ole   Glory  says  (<  Come   on,"  ter  write  yer 

country's  scroll, 
Jes'  give  us  back  the  martial  drum  ter  call  the  battle 

roll! 
Thar's  somethin'  'bout  the  ole  (<  long  roll  *  that  sorter 

seems  ter  say: 
(<  Columbia's  got  her  eye  on  you  —  her  honor's  yourn 

to-day ! » 

An'   when  the  final  call  of  "taps,"  w lights  out,"   fer 

me  an'  you, 

No  bugle  blare  can  softly  roll  the  soldier's  last  tattoo. 
The  soldier's  last  tattoo  —  the  van,  the  soldier's  bier, 
The  rifle  song  your  only  hymn,  the  muffled  drum, 

the  rear! 

Oh,  gratitude!   Vague  butterfly!   Yer  hosts  endure  a 

day; 
Ter  (<fold  their  tents  like  Arabs  an'  as  lightly  steal 

away ! " 
He   heard   the  drummer's   long  tattoo,  the    column's 

tramp  an'  tread, 
Along  the  path  that  ends  beside  the  trenches  o*  the 

dead! 

Then   take   yer  yaller  horn,  my   boys,  an'  toot  it  if 

yer  will, 
But    give   ter  me    the  ole    snare  drum   ter   lead  the 

column  still ! 

—  George  E.  Powell^  in  Chicago  Inter-Ocean. 


PATRIOTIC   POEMS  6 1 


OUR    BONNIE    BOYS    IN    BLUE. 


FAREWELL,  brave  boys  in  blue! 
Godspeed  on  your  victorious  way! 
While  your  beloved  ones  shall  pray 
God  guide  and  guard  you  every  day, 

Our  bonnie  boys  in  blue! 

Our  gallant  boys  in  blue! 
We'll  say  farewell  with  smile  and  cheer; 
And  you  shall  never  know  the  tear 
That  flows  through  all  your  absence  dear, 

Oh,  soldier  laddies  true! 

Oh,  patriot  boys  in  blue! 
Where'er  you  go,  by  land  or  sea, 
Beneath  that  banner  of  the  free, 
There  floats  the  flag  of  victory! 

Oh,  dauntless  boys  in  blue! 

Beloved  boys  in  blue! 
We  know  that  some  may  ne'er  return; 
But  yet  our  leal  hearts  proudly  burn 
To  see  those  faces  set  and  stern 

With  purpose  firm  and  true. 

Ah,  other  boys  in  blue  — 
Who  once  marched  down  this  city  street  — 
Now  resting  in  your  winding  sheet; 
For  you  two  nations'  war  drums  beat; 

Columbia  fights  for  you! 


62  WAR-TIME    ECHOES 

Oh,  martyred  boys  in  blue! 
No  freeman's  blood  e'er  flows  in  vain, 
Columbia  need  not  call  again; 
(<  Remember,  boys,  the  gallant  (  Maine ! > 

Her  buried  boys  in  blue !  w 

Columbia's  boys  in  blue! 
Her  banner  waves  above  your  head; 
And  by  its  bars  of  white  and  red 
She  swears  the  living,  shrouds  the  dead: 

Columbia's  freemen  true! 

March  on,  brave  boys  in  blue! 
That  flag  that  floats  o'er  every  street  — 
That  flag  has  never  known  defeat! 
The  God  of  Hosts  guards  patriot  feet 

Beneath  that  banner  true. 


Good-by,  brave  boys  in  blue: 
Good-by!  that  word  so  sadly  sweet 
Means:   <(God  be  with  you  till  we  meet!M 
Till  home  again  we  proudly  greet 

Our  brave,  bronzed  boys  in  blue! 

—  E.  Dorsey  Anderson,  in  New   York   Tribune. 

*   *   * 
THE    BRAVE    AT    HOME. 

WE  DO  not  send  them  all  away  — 

Our  bravest  and  our  best  — 
When  the  battle  cry  is  sounding 

And  the  eagle  leaves  its  nest ; 


PATRIOTIC   POEMS  63 

There  are  brave  battalions  marching, 

And  the  heroes  face  the  roar 
Of  the  guns  that  belch  their  lightning 

In  the  thunderstorm  of  war. 

But  the  brave  hearts,  true  hearts, 

The  hearts  that  wait  at  home 
For  the  news  that  tells  of  battle 

On  the  field  or  on  the  foam, 
Are  the  hearts  that  beat  with  courage 

And  the  hearts  whose  hoping  thrives. 
Oh,  the  little  lips  of  loving, 

And  the  sweethearts  and  the  wives! 

When  they  march  away  to  glory, 

When  the  flags  above  them  wave, 
When  the  nation  sends  its  greeting 

To  the  valiant  and  the  brave, 
There  are  tender  heroes  waiting, 

There  are  brave  ones  left  behind, 
As  the  bugle's  note  of  sorrow 

Wafts  its  music  on  the  wind. 

The  brave  hearts,  true  hearts, 

With  nothing  left  to  do 
But  watch  and  wait  and  wonder 

Till  the  storm  and  strife  are  through; 
But  their  courage  cheers  the  nation, 

And  it  crowns  the  tender  lives 
Of  the  little  lips  of  loving, 

And  the  sweethearts  and  the  wives! 

'Tis  a  woman's  way  to  struggle 
In  the  silence  of  her  grief; 


64  WAR-TIME   ECHOES 

Tis  the  child-heart's  tender  habit  — 
In  her  dreamland  make-belief — 

To  behold  the  days  with  courage 
And  to  live  throughout  the  night 

With  a  tender  word  of  hoping 
For  the  breaking  of  the  light. 

The  brave  hearts,  true  hearts, 

The  soldier  leaves  to  weep, 
As  he  takes  the  weary  journey 

Down  the  valley  o'er  the  deep, 
Are  the  hearts  at  home  so  gentle, 

Bound  in  sorrow's  unseen  gyves  — 
The  little  lips  of  loving, 

And  the  sweethearts  and  the  wives! 

Ah,  the  little  lips  of  loving, 

The  little  lips  that  be 
So  ripe  with  red-rose  laughter 

And  so  innocent  with  glee ! 
Ah,  the  hearts  of  sweethearts,  hoping 

Till  the  dawn  shall  bring  the  light, 
The  wives  that  wait  the  echoes 

From  the  fields  where  heroes  fight1 

The  brave  hearts,  true  hearts, 

They  are  not  all  away  — 
For  some  are  left  to  wonder 

And  to  watch  afar  the  fray; 
And  the  heroes  left  behind, 

Noble  hearts  and.  noble  lives  — 
The  little  lips  of  loving, 

And  the  sweethearts  and  the  wives! 

— Baltimore  News. 


PATRIOTIC   POEMS  65 

U.    S.    SPELLS    US. 


MY  PAPA'S  all  dressed  tip  to-day; 

He  never  looked  so  fine; 
I  thought  when  I  first  looked  at  him 

My  papa  wasn't  mine. 

He's  got  a  beautiful  new  suit 

The  old  one  was  so  old  — 
It's  blue,  with  buttons  oh,  so  bright, 

I  guess  they  must  be  gold. 

And  papa's  sort  o'  glad  and  sort 

O'  sad — il  wonder  why; 
And  ev'ry  time  she  looks  at  him 

It  makes  my  mamma  cry. 

Who's  Uncle  Sam  ?     My  papa  says 

That  he  belongs  to  him; 
But  papa's  joking,  'cause  he  knows 
My  uncle's  name  is  Jim. 

My  papa  just  belongs  to  me 
And  mamma.     And  I  guess 

The  folks  are  blind  who  cannot  see 
His  buttons  marked  U.  S. 

U.  S.  spells  Us.     He's  ours  —  and  yet 

My  mamma  can't  help  cry, 
And  papa  tries  to  smile  at  me 

And  can't — I  wonder  why. 
5  — Anon. 


66  WAR-TIME  ECHOES 

AT   THE    FRONT. 

NOT  the  soldters  only  are  at  the  front  to-day, 

Not  alone  the  boys  in  blue  who  face  the  stubborn 

foe, 

In  the  tent  and  in  the  charge,  and  on  the  weary  way, 
There  are  unseen  sentinels  who  watch  with  eyes 
aglow. 

Mothers  who  have  sent  their  sons  to  battle  for  the 

right, 

Wives  and  sweethearts,  all  day  long,  whose  throb- 
bing hearts  are  there, 

A  host  of  loyal  loving  ones  who  help  the  gallant  fight, 
By  beating  at  the  throne  of  God,  with  never-ceasing 
prayer. 

These  may  not  thread  the  jungle,  nor  storm  the  frown- 
ing hill, 
They  stand  not  in  the  rifle-pit,  they  man  no  sullen 

gun; 
But  they  are  with  the  army,  and  with  strength  their 

pulses  thrill, 

And  theirs  will  be  the  victor's  part,  when  once  the 
strife  is  done. 

Standing  for  the  old  flag,  standing  firm  for  God, 
Standing    for    humanity,    they    meet    the    battle's 

brunt, 
These  women,  who  for  heartache,  scarce  can  see  the 

path  they've  trod, 

Since  they  kiss'd  the  lads  they  love  so  dear,  and 
sent  them  to  the  front. 

—Margaret  E.  Sangster. 


PATRIOTIC   POEMS  67 

THE    SOLDIER'S    WIFE. 

HE  OFFERED  himself  for  the  land  he  loved, 
But  what  shall  we  say  of  her  ? 

He  gave  to  his  country  a  soldier's  life; 

'Twas  dearer  by  far  to  the  soldier's  wife: 
All  honor  to-day  to  her! 

He  went  to  the  war  while  his  blood  was  hot. 

But  what  shall  we  say  of  her  ? 
He  saw  for  himself  through  the  battle's  flame 
A  hero's  reward  on  the  scroll  of  fame: 

What  honor  is  due  to  her? 

He  offered  himself,  but  his  wife  did  more, 

All  honor  to-day  to  her! 
For  dearer  than  life  was  the  gift  she  gave 
In  giving  the  life  she  would  die  to  save: 

What  honor  is  due  to  her  ? 

He  gave  up  his  life  at  his  country's  call, 

But  what  shall  we  say  of  her  ? 
He  offered  himself  as  a  sacrifice, 
But  she  is  the  one  who  pays  the  price: 
All  honor  we  owe  to  her. 

— Elliott  Flower. 
*  *  * 

NORTHERN  PINE  TO  SOUTHERN  PAL- 
METTO. 

u  GONE   to    the   front,  »  at    their  country's    call,  their 

young  hearts  proudly  beating, 
<(  Gone  to  the  front, w  your  son  and  mine;  dear  friend, 

how  time  is  fleeting! 


68  WAR-TIME   ECHOES 

We  met,  you  and  I,  in  the  days  gone  by,  as  foes  on 

the  field  of  battle; 
We  met  and  fought  'mid  the  cannon's  roar  and  the 

rifle's  deadly  rattle. 
You  ^wore  the  gray,   and  I,  the   blue ;    and  the  strife 

was  fierce  and  gory, 
Now,  side    by    side,  march    our    sons  —  our    pride  — 

'neath  Freedom's  flag — Old  Glory. 

<(  Gone  to  the  front. w     Not  for  revenge ;  though  hearts 

are  bowed  in  sorrow 
For   martyred    braves  'neath    the    treacherous    waves 

that  roll  by  stern  old  Morro, 
<(  Vengeance  is  mine;    I  will  repay. w     God's  wrath  is 

sometimes  speedy 
He  knoweth  best;  be  thy  our  task,  to  help  the  poor 

and  needy. 
We  have  borne  too  long  this  shameful  wrong  —  the 

whole  world  knows  the  story — 
So   side   by   side,   with   a   patriot's   pride,  march    our 

sons  beneath  Old  Glory. 

<(  Gone  to  the  front. w     Prepared  for  war;   yet  theirs 

is  a  peaceful  mission. 
Our  ears  have  heard,  our  eyes  have  seen  poor  Cuba's 

sad  condition. 
We  have  heard  the  piteous,  hungry  cry  for  help  from 

lips  fast  dying, 
And,   comrade,   by    the    God    we    love  —  by    the    flag 

above  us  flying, 
We,  too,  if  needs,  will  march  to  the  front,  though  the 

pathway  may  be  gory, 
For  God  and  the  right,  with  valor  and  might,  we'll 

face  the  foe  for  Old  Glory. 

—  Thomas  Sullivan. 


PATRIOTIC   POEMS  69 

TWO    VOICES. 

A   SOUTHERN    VOLUNTEER. 


YES,  sir,  I  fought  with  Stonewall, 

And  faced  the  fight  with  Lee; 
But  if  this  here  Union  goes  to  war, 

Make  one  more  gun  for  me! 
I  didn't  shrink  from  Sherman 

As  he  galloped  to  the  sea; 
But  if  this  here  Union  goes  to  war, 

Make  one  more  gun  for  me! 

I  was  with  'em  at  Manassas  — 

The  bully  boys  in  gray; 
I  heard  the  thunderers  roarin' 

Round  Stonewall  Jackson's  way, 
And  many  a  time  this  sword  of  mine 

Has  blazed  the  route  for  Lee; 
But  if  this  old  Nation  goes  to  war, 

Make  one  more  gun  for  me! 

I'm  not  so  full  o'  fightin', 

Nor  half  so  full  o'  fun, 
As  I  was  back  in  the  sixties 

When  I  shouldered  my  old  gun; 
It  may  be  that  my  hair  is  white  — 

Such  things,  you  know,  must  be, 
But  if  this  old  Union's  in  for  war, 

Make  one  more  gun  for  me! 

I  hain't  forgot  my  raisin'  — 
Nor  how,  in  sixty-two,. 


70  WAR-TIME  ECHOES 

Or  thereabouts,  with  battle  shouts 
I  charged  the  Boys  in  Blue, 

And  I  say:    I  fought  with  Stonewall, 
And  blazed  the  way  for  Lee; 

But  if  this  old  Union's  in  for  war, 
Make  one  more  gun  for  me! 

— Atlanta  Constitution. 


HIS    NORTHERN    BROTHER. 


JUST  make  it  two,  old  fellow, 

I  want  to  stand  once  more 
Beneath  the  old  flag  with  you 

As  in  the  days  of  yore 
Our  fathers  stood  together 

And  fought  on  land  and  sea 
The  battles  fierce  that  made  us 

A  nation  of  the  free. 

I  whipped  you  down  at  Vicksburg, 

You  licked  me  at  Bull  Run; 
On  many  a  field  we  struggled, 

When  neither  victory  won. 
You  wore  the  gray  of  Southland 

I  wore  the  Northern  blue: 
Like  men  we  did  our  duty 

When  screaming  bullets  flew. 

Four  years  we  fought  like  devils, 
But  when  the  war  was  done 

Your  hand  met  mine  in  friendly  clasp, 
Our  two  hearts  beat  as  one. 


PATRIOTIC   POEMS 

And  now  when  danger  threatens, 
No  North,  no  South,  we  know, 

Once  more  we  stand  together 
To  fight  the  common  foe. 

My  head,  like  yours,  is  frosty  — 

Old  age  is  creeping  on; 
Life's  sun  is  lower  sinking, 

My  day  will  soon  be  gone, 
But  if  our  country's  honor 

Needs  once  again  her  son, 
I'm  ready,  too,  old  fellow  — 

So  get  another  gun. 

—  Minneapolis  Journal. 

*    *    * 

ONE  BENEATH  OLD  GLORY. 

DON'T  you  hear  the  tramp  of  soldiers? 

Don't  you  hear  the  bugles  play  ? 
Don't  you  see  the  muskets  flashing 

In  the  sunlight  far  away  ? 
Don't  you  see  the  ground  all  trembling 

'Neath  the  tread  of  many  feet  ? 
They  are  coming,  tens  of  thousands, 

To  the  army  and  the  fleet. 

They  are  Yankees,  they  are  Johnnies, 

They're  for  North  and  South  no  more; 
They  are  one,  and  glad  to  follow 

When  Old  Glory  goes  before. 
From  Atlantic  to  Pacific, 

From  the  Pine  Tree  to  Lone  Star, 
They  are  gath'ring  round  Old  Glory 

And  they're  marching  to  the  war. 


72  WAR-TIME   ECHOES 

Don't  you  see  the  harbors  guarded 

By  those  bristling  dogs  of  war? 
Don't  you  hear  them  growling,  barking, 

At  the  fleet  beyond  the  bar  ? 
Don't  you  hear  the  Jack  Tars  cheering, 

Brave  as  sailor  lads  can  be  ? 
Don't  you  see  the  water  boiling 

Where  the  squadrons  put  to  sea  ? 

They  are  Yankees,  they  are  Johnnies, 

They're  for  North  and  South  no  more; 
They  are  one  and  glad  to  follow 

When  Old  Glory  goes  before. 
From  Atlantic  to  Pacific, 

From  the  Pine  Tree  to  Lone  Star, 
They  have  gathered  round  Old  Glory, 

And  they're  sailing  to  the  war. 

Don't  you  hear  the  horses  prancing  ? 

Don't  you  hear  the  sabres  clash  ? 
Don't  you  hear  the  cannon  roaring  ? 

Don't  you  hear  the  musket  crash  ? 
Don't  you  smell  the  smoke  of  battle  ? 

Oh,  you'll  wish  that  you  had  gone, 
When  you  hear  the  shouts  and  cheering 

For  the  boys  who  whipped  the  Don! 

There'll  be  Yankees,  there'll  be  Johnnies, 

There'll  be  North  and  South  no  more, 
When  the  boys  come  marching  homeward 

With  Old  Glory  borne  before. 
From  Atlantic  to  Pacific, 

From  the  Pine  Tree  to  Lone  Star, 
They'll  be  one  beneath  Old  Glory, 

After  coming  from  the  war. 

—  From  Werner's  Magazine. 


PATRIOTIC   POEMS  73 

BLUE    AND    GRAY    ARE    ONE. 

HURRAH  for  the  North!     Hurrah  for  the  South! 

Hurrah  for -the  East  and  the  West! 
The  nation  is  one,  undivided  and  free, 

And  all  of  its  sons  are  the  best. 
Together  the  men  of  the  whole  blessed  land 
Are  firmly  united  in  one  mighty  band, 
And  they  that  were  once  the  blue  and  the  gray 
Are  gathered  beneath  dear  Old  Glory  to-day, 

With  men  on  both  sides  in  command. 

Then  march,  boys,  march;  we'll  set  fair  Cuba  free! 
March,  boys,  march!  with  Miles  and  Fitzhugh  Lee, 
Forward  all  the  line!   and  be  your  song's  refrain: 
w  America  for  freemen,  and  break  the  grip  of  Spain  !w 

Hurrah  for  the  blue!    Hurrah  for  the  gray! 

Hurrah  for  the  sons  of  them  all! 
Together  we  come  and  united  we  stand, 

To  answer  humanity's  call; 
Freemen  arising,  to  dash  down  the  foe; 
Blue  and  gray  dealing  him  death  at  each  blow; 
Mingling  a  host  from  the  North  and  the  South, 
'Neath  the  same  banner,  and  from  every  mouth 

One  battle  cry,  <(  Freedom !  w  shall  go. 

Hurrah  for  the  guns!    Hurrah  for  the  ships! 

Hurrah  for  the  flag  of  the  stars! 
Hurrah  for  the  men  who  fought  under  that! 

Or  under  the  stars  and  the  bars! 
They're  rallying  now,  brave,  ardent,  and  strong, 
To  punish  injustice  and  overthrow  wrong; 


74  WAR-TIME   ECHOES 

Columbia  rises  and  leads  in  the  fight, 
Her  sons  to  do  battle  for  honor  and  right. 

And  they're  singing  America's  song. 
—  William  Lightfoot   Visscher,  in  Chicago  Times-Herald. 

*   *   * 
WAR    SCARS    ARE    HEALED. 


ACROSS  the  battlefield  to-day  I  walk 

Where  flowers  nod  and  birds  harmonious  sing, 
Where  peaceful  leaves  in  loving  whispers  talk, 

And  butterflies  disport  on  brilliant  wing; 
The  scented  breeze  is  laden  deep  with  balm, 
And  smiling  skies  bend  o'er  me  still  and  calm. 

What  stranger,  knowing  not  of  warring  days, 

Would  think  this  vale  was  once  with  cannon  rent, 

While  armed  men  fiercely  trod  these  grassy  ways 
And  trees  beneath  the  iron  tempests  bent; 

That  thunder  born  of  hate  here  madly  crashed, 

And  war's  red  lightnings  here  in  fury  flashed  ? 

The  sky  was  canopied  with  smoke  o'erhead, 

The  flowers  with  redder  hues  than  now  were  wet, 

Brave  men  fell  'neath  the  hail  of  hurtling  lead 
And  crimsoned  steel  in  hearts  of  brethren  met; 

While  men  by  thousands,  writhing,  fought  and  fell 

Amid  the  horrors  of  an  awful  hell. 

Thank  God  that  all  those  bloody  scenes  are  o'er, 
That  bees  and  birds  now  here  together  play, 

That  brothers  shall  slay  brothers  thus  no  more, 
Nor  hate  reap  harvests  here  of  blue  and  gray; 


PATRIOTIC   POEMS  75 

Blood-brotherhood  decrees  that  strife  shall  cease, 
And  love  enthroned  proclaims  the  reign  of  peace. 

Bloom,  flowers,  and  offer  incense  o'er  these  graves; 
Wave,  starry  flag,  no  more  o'er  ebon  slaves; 
Nor  on  red  fields  o'er  which  war's  tempest  raves. 
Henceforth  when  foreign  foes  appear  in  view, 
Our  flag  finds  North  and  South  defenders  true, — 
The  men  in  gray  joined  with  the  men  in  blue. 

— I.  Edgar  Jones. 

*   *   * 
«  DIXIE  »   AND   «  YANKEE    DOODLE. » 


I  WAS  born  'way  down  in  <(  Dixie," 
Reared  beneath  the  Southern  skies, 

And  they  didn't  have  to  teach  me 
Every  <(  Yankee  w  to  despise. 

I  was  but  a  country  youngster 
When  I  donned  a  suit  of  gray, 

When  I  shouldered  my  old  musket, 

And  marched  forth  the  (<  Yanks  °  to  slay 

Four  long  years  I  fought  and  suffered, 

<(  Dixie }>  was  my  battle  cry ; 
(<  Dixie  w  always  and  forever, 

Down  in  (<  Dixie w  let  me  die. 

And  to-night  I'm  down  in  "Dixie," 
"Dixie"  still  so  grand  and  true; 

But  to-night  I  am  appareled 
In  a  uniform  of  blue. 


76  WAR-TIME  ECHOES 

And  to-night  the  band  is  playing; 

'Tis  not  (<  Dixie's w  strains  I  hear, 
But  the  strains  of  «  Yankee  Doodle » 

Ring  out  strong  and  clear. 

Long  I  listen  to  the  music; 

By  my  side  a  comrade  stands; 
He's  a  «Yank»  and  I'm  a  «  Rebel, » 

But  we  grasp  each  other's  hands. 

Here  together  we  united 

'Way  down  South  in  <(  Dixie  *  stand, 
And  my  comrade  whispers  softly, 

<(  There's  no  land  like  (  Dixie's  land.*" 

But  my  eyes  are  filled  with  teardrops, 
Tears  that  make  my  heart  feel  glad; 

And  I  whisper  to  my  comrade: 
«<  Yankee  Doodle  >  ain't  so  bad.» 

—  Lawrence  Porcher  Hext. 


*   *   * 


TOGETHER. 


I  TELL  you,  this  here  country — she's  gittin'  whar 
she'll  do, 

When  the  Northern  bands  play  (<  Dixie,"  an*  the  peo- 
ple cheer  it,  too! 

We're  mighty  clost  together  when  they  mix  the  mu- 
sic so  — 

An'  yet,  we  wuz  divided  some  thirty  year  ago! 


PATRIOTIC   POEMS  77 

I  tell  you,  this  here  country  —  jest  take  us,  land  an' 

sea — 

Is  'bout  as  nigh  united  as  the   Lord  'ud  have  it  be! 
We're  marchin'  on  together  through  summer  time  an' 

snow  — 
We  that  wuz  so  divided  some  thirty  year  ago. 

Together!     That's   the    music    that's    ringin'    to   the 

sky  — 
That's  what  the  winds   is   singin'  as   they  blow   the 

blossoms  by; 
Together!     Hear  the  bands   play,  an'  all  the  bugles 

blow  — 
We  that  was  so  divided  some  thirty  year  ago. 

Together!    Sing  it  —  ring  it!    Send  the  music  ripplin' 

long, 
Till  the  whole  world  hears  the  echoes  of  the  swellin* 

tide  of  song! 
Till  the  whole  world   jines  the  chorus  —  bands  play 

an'  bugles  blow!  — 
We  that  was  so  divided  some  thirty  year  ago. 

— Frank  L.  Stanton,  in  Leslie's   Weekly. 


*   *   * 


CHANT    OF    THE    NEW    UNION. 


BLOOD  of  the  North 

To  the  Blood  of  the  South  — 
Are  we  the  same  blood  ? 

Though  in  strife  parted  —  born  of  one  mother; 
Now,  as  the  forge-fires  flame  o'er  the  land; 


78  WAR-TIME   ECHOES 

Wake  in  a  new  love  —  brother  to  brother; 

Lift  we  a  loving-cup,  hand  clasped  in  hand. 
Draining  the  same  draught,  though  it  be  red; 
Shouting  the  same  cry,  wherever  led, 
Drink  to  our  Union! 
Yes  — 

Now  the  same  blood! 


Heart  of  the  North 

To  the  Heart  of  the  South  — 
Beat  we  the  same  heart  ? 
In  thirst  and  hunger,  at  the  same  altar, 

Knead  we  the  bread,  to  break  with  our  wine. 
Kneel  we  together,  chanting  our  psalter; 

Rise  we  together,  freedom  our  sign. 
All  of  our  heroes  look  down  from  heaven, 
Where  our  blood  runs  their  blessing  is  given. 
Sons  of  the  Union! 
Yes  — 

Now  the  same  heart! 


Sword  of  the  North 

To  the  Sword  of  the  South  — 
Lift  we  the  same  sword  ? 
Thrust  in  our  hands  for  the  vengeance  of  God. 

Clasp  we  its  hafts  in  the  battles  of  Right, 
Where  Murder  and  Famine  and  Rapine  have  trod, 

We  lift  to  annihilate  —  righteous  our  might. 
Wave  we  on  high,  heaven  kissing  the  brand 
That  its  gleam  may  be  seen  in  a  faint,  stricken  land. 
Strike  for  our  Union! 
Yes  — 

Now  the  same  sword! 


PATRIOTIC   POEMS  79 

Flag  of  the  North 

To  the  Flag  of  the  South  — 
Float  we  the  same  flag? 
Hallowed  star-spangled  one,  calm,  pure,  and  regal, 

Lead  us  to  reap  where  the  harvest  is  sown. 
Follow  the  scream  of  our  cloud-circling  eagle, 

Burst  from  its  cage,  its  war-pinions  new-grown, 
Spread  and  unfurl  to  tell  victory's  story, 
Symbol  of  justice,  symbol  of  glory, 
Wave  for  the  Union! 
Yes  — 

Now  the  same  flag! 

Prayer  of  the  North 

To  the  Prayer  of  the  South  — 

Breathe  we  the  same  prayer  ? 
Death  to  oppression  —  succor  to  pain  — 

E'en  through  our  vows  shrill  shrieks  fill  the  air; 
Rise!    that  they  may  not  our  hearts  rive  again. 

Sheathe  not!   but  strike  for  a  nation's  despair! 
Lift  the  sword-cross  as  once  God's  soldiers  prayed, 
Pray  as  the  Knights  of  a  holy  Crusade. 
Pray  for  our  Union! 
Yes  — 

Now  the  same  prayer. 
— Edmund  Russell. 

*   *   * 
THE    STREAM    O'    FREEDOM. 

DON'T   dam  the  stream  o'  Freedom   in   this  Western 

Hemisphere ! 
It  comes  rollin'  down  the  ages  till  by  this  it's  gettin' 

clear 


8o  WAR-TIME   ECHOES 

Thet  the  tide   thet's  sweepin'  on'ard,  red  with  many 

a  martyr's  blood 
Can't  be  stopped,  and  them  thet  tries  it  ull  perish  in 

the  flood. 

Don't   dam   the  stream   o'    Freedom  —  it's   bound  ter 

make  its  way 
Where   the   foot  of   God   shall   turn   it,  usherin'  in    a 

brighter  day, 
Till  the  desert  place  shall  flourish  an'  blossom  as  the 

rose, 
An'  the  land  o'  desolation  spring  to  verdure  where  it 

flows. 

Don't  dam  the  stream  o'  Freedom  —  yer  might  ez  well 

set  out 

To  stop  the  rain  from  fallin'  by  prophesyin'  drought; 
Yer  can't  put  out  the  sunshine  by  blindin'  yer  own 

eyes, 
An'  ez   fer  keepin'  summer  back,  don't  try  it  if  yer 

wise. 

Don't  dam   the   stream  o'  Freedom   in   this  Western 

Hemisphere ! 
It  ain't  no  ole-world  rivulet  thet's  thawed  out  wunst 

a  year; 
It's   a   tidal   wave   of  promise   thet   the   angels  push 

along, 
Bearin'  life  upon  it's  bosom,  bearin'  doom  to  ancient 

wrong. 
— Amzi  Tibbals,  in  New   York  Mail  and  Express. 


PATRIOTIC    POEMS  81 


THE    AMERICAN    SONG. 


WHAT  song  shall  America  sing, 

Young  heir  of  the  elder  world, 
Whose  knee  ne'er  bent  to  tyrant  king, 

Whose  banner  defeat  ne'er  furled  ? 
A  song  for  the  brave  and  the  free, 

No  echo  of  antique  rhyme, 
But  a  shout  of  hope  for  the  day  to  be, 

The  light  of  the  coming  time. 

From  the  dark  lowlands  of  the  past, 

Swelling  loud  o'er  the  victim's  cries, 
The  hero's  shout  sweeps  up  the  blast 

Where  wounded  freedom  dies. 
The  drum's  dull  beat  and  the  trumpet's  blare 

From  the  far-off  years  are  heard; 
But  the  paean  of  kings  is  man's  despair, 

And  the  hope  of  the  world  deferred. 

'Tis  the  song  of  the  free  we  sing; 

Of  the  good  time  not  yet  born, 
WThere  each  man  of  himself  is  king, 

Of  a  day  whose  gladsome  morn 
Shall  see  the  earth  beneath  our  feet, 

And  a  fair  sky  overhead; 
When  those  now  sad  shall  find  life  sweet, 

And  none  shall  hunger  for  bread. 

Sing  then  our  American  song! 

'Tis  no  boast  of  triumphs  won 
At  the  price  of  another's  wrong, 
Or  of  foul  deeds  foully  done. 
6 


82'  WAR-TIME   ECHOES 

We  fight  for  the  wide  world's  right, 
To  enlarge  life's  scope  and  plan, 

To  flood  the  earth  with  hope  and  light, 
To  build  the  kingdom  of  man! 

—  M.  J.  Savage. 

*   *   * 


THE    NEW    «  IMPERIALISM.  » 


Give  us  new  seas  to  sail!  —  the  cry  is,  give  us  new  seas  to  sail! 

New  seas  to  sail,  be  they  never  so  mad,  and  we  ship  in  the  teeth  of  the  gale  ; 

For  the  old  seas  pall  on  our  souls  like  death,  their  deeps  and  their  tides 

we  know  ; 

The  slope  of  the  continents  under  the  brine,  and  the  black  ooze-beds  below." 

—  Song  of  New  Seas. 


ADVANCED,    on   the   deep   and   tremendous   seas,    our 

flag,  imperial,  flies 
Over  far-off  lands,  where   the  stars  look  down  from 

the  antipodean  skies; 
Our  colors  are  up,  and  the  conquering  blood  of  the 

race  is  aroused,  at  last; 
The  nation  awakes  with  quick  answering  heart  to  the 

sound  of  the  trumpet's  blast. 

We  have  broken,  at  last,  from  the  fettering  past,  the 

sequestered  and  gold-rimmed  years, 
From  the  slothful  lease  of  a  soulless  peace  and  the 

net  of  our  selfish  fears. 
We  are  out  of  the  swaddling  clouts,  thank  God,  and 

into  the  shining  mail, 
We  have  taken  our  place  in  the  van  of  the  race;  we 

have  found  new  seas  to  sail! 


PATRIOTIC   POEMS  83 

It's  greater  America — greater  in  hope,  and  greater  in 

heart  and  mind, 
America  fronting  the  threatening  world  in  the  cause 

of  oppressed  mankind; 
America,   slow  in  wrath,  but  firm  in  defense  of   the 

rights  of  men, 
With  her  own  strong  hands  she  will  anchor  the  lands 

by  the  plan  of  a  larger  ken. 

Let   us  not  be  deceived, 'we  shall  not   be   reprieved, 

the  long  battle  must  be  sustained; 
It's  the   eagle,  alone,   with   the  crag   for   throne,  it's 

a  fight  till  the  field  be  gained. 
We    must    arm   and    be   strong   for    the   righting    of 

wrong,  we  must  bring  not  woe,  but  weal; 
And  we  want  no  drones  while  we  buckle  the  zones  of 

the  earth  with  our  own  good  steel. 

On  the  Eastern  sea,  on  the  ocean  West,  the  shelter- 
ing wings  shall  spread, 

And  the  bristling  crest  will  defend  the  nest,  and  the 
growing  brood  be  fed; 

The  strong  beak,  fierce  —  the  eyes  that  pierce  —  they 
were  made  for  days  like  these; 

When  the  talons,  bold,  let  go  their  hold,  it  will  be 
when  the  bird  shall  please. 

By  sea  and  crag,  where'er  our  flag,  victorious,  be  un- 
furled, 

It  shall  stay,  if  we  say,  till  the  judgment  day,  in  spite 
of  the  snarling  world. 

And  the  wheel  will  roll  to  the  destined  goal  of  the 
glorious  years  that  wait; 

We  will  never  turn  back  from  the  shining  track  of 
the  heralding  stars  of  fate 


84  WAR-TIME   ECHOES 

Each   rich    wrecked   age   is  a  warning   page,  let   our 

wisdom  ponder  it  well, 
For   strewn  with   the   dust  of   the   thrones   unjust   is 

the  easy  slope  of  hell. 
With  the  lesson  well  learned,  with  tyranny  spurned, 

with  the  world  and  the  future  to  face, 
Our  measure  of  might  is  the  cause  of  right  and  the 

blood  of  the  Saxon  race. 

We  have  broken,  at  last,  from  the  shackling  past,  we 

have  done  with  the  dawdling  years, 
With  the  slothful  lease  of  a  selfish  peace,  the  nurse  of 

a  weakling's  fears; 
We  are  out  of  the  swaddling  clouts,  and  now,  we  are 

into  the  woven  mail, 
In  the  van  of  the  race,  and,  by  God's  good  grace,  we 

have  got  new  seas  to  sail. 

—  Robert  Burns    Wilson. 

*    *    * 

OLD    GLORY. 


WE  HAVE  heard  the  battle  bugle  break  the  silence  of 

the  night, 
We  have  seen   the  battle  columns  in  the   tempest  of 

the  fight, 

And    beheld    Old    Glory    shining    with    its    stars   of 
morning  light, 

While  Freedom  marched  along. 
CHORUS  — 

Glory,  glory,  hallelujah, 
Glory,  glor^  hallelujah, 
-,  glory,  hallelujah, 
P/eedom  is  marching  on. 


PATRIOTIC    POEMS  85 

We    have    seen    our   country   battle   when    the    North 

and  South  were  foes, 
We    have    seen    heroic    struggles    'twixt    the    battle's 

dawn  and  close, 

But  that  day  of  fatal  warfare  dims  into  a  deep  repose, 
And  Freedom  marches  on. 

We  have  lived  to  see   Old  Glory  float  its  stars  from 
strand  to  strand, 

And  have  seen  it  wave  in  triumph  o'er  the  Spaniards' 
conquered  land, 

And  the  South  and  North  are  vanished,  for  Ameri- 
cans we  stand; 

And  Freedom  marches  on. 

Under  Stripes  and  Stars  we're  marching  to  the  free- 
ing of  the  world; 
And  for  Freedom,  fleets  and  navies  into  battles  thick 

are  hurled; 

And  the  dear  folds  of  Old  Glory  to  the  world's  winds 
are  unfurled, 

While  Freedom  marches  on. 

—  Rev.   William  A.   Quayle,  D.  D. 

*    *    * 
HAIL    OUR    GLORIOUS    BANNER. 


ALL  hail  the  glorious  banner;  fit  emblem  of  the  free, 
Proudly  floating  in  the  light  of  the  bright  morn- 
ing sun; 

It  bears  a  welcome  message,  far  over  land  and  sea, 
Of  charity  for  all,  and  malice  toward  none. 


86  WAR-TIME   ECHOES 

Beneath  its  folds  we  fear  not,  'though  hostile  cannon 
roar, 

For  the  liberty  we  prize  our  father's  valor  won, 
And  we  this  priceless  heritage  will  hold,  for  evermore, 

With  charity  for  all,  and  malice  toward  none. 

One    nation    we,    from    sea    to    sea;    one   hope,    one 

tongue,  one  law. 
And  before  us  lies  a  duty,  we  cannot  —  dare  not 

—  shun ; 
To   loose    the   bands   of  tyranny;   for  this  the  sword 

we  drawr,  . 
With  charity  for  all,  and  malice  toward  none. 

If  other  nations,  rashly,  shall  dare  to  intervene, 

They  will  find  us  ready  for  them;  man  for  man 

and  gun  for  gun; 
We  stand  for  right  and  freedom;   hearts  undaunted; 

weapons  keen. 
With  charity  for  all,  and  malice  toward  none. 

We  hold  one  purpose,  steadfast,  sure;  this  war  shall 

never  cease 
Till  Cuba's  isle  shall  Freedom  know:   but,  when 

our  task  is  done, 
With  joy  we'll  crown  our  battle   flags  with   garland 

wreaths  of  peace, 
With  charity  for  all,  and  malice  toward  none. 

Then  hail  our  starry  banner,  forever  floating  free; 
With    its    colors    bathed   in    glory    by   the    bright 

morning  sun  — 
While  the  breezes  bear  its   message,  far   over   land 

and  sea, 
Of  charity  for  all,  and  malice  toward  none. 

—  Thomas  Sullivan. 


PATRIOTIC   POEMS  87 

THE    HERO    OF    MANILA. 


GOD  of  our  country,  Thee  we  sing: 

We  thank  Thee  for  the  mighty  day 

Which  saw  the  fall  of  Cavite: 
Our  humble  gratitude  we  bring. 
Thy  lavish  hand  we  praised  and  knew, 

So  laid  our  trust  in  Heav'n; 

But  this,  Thy  latest  bounty  giv'n, 
Hath  made  our  trustful  hearts  more  true. 

Up  with  the  dawn  our  lads  arose 

And  breathed  two  thousand  pray'rs  to  Thee. 

For  Dewey,  Ho'me,  and  Victory, 
A  man  could  fight  a  hundred  foes. 
Over  the  hidden  hell  beneath 

The  squadron  came  and  filled  the  bay. 

That  the  devil  might  have  his  lawful  pay 
And  the  lamb  be  saved  from  the  jackal's  teeth. 

And  he  who  rode  the  Eastern  main, 
Nor  paused  the  Why  or  How  to  ask, 
Dewey,  our  son,  knew  duty's  task 

And  loosed  the  awful  flaming  rain. 

Then  burst  the  proud  foe's  swollen  pride; 
His  vanquished  fleet  beneath  the  wave, 
His  fort  a  silent  gaping  grave  — 

Remorse  was  born:    Resistance  died. 

In  sleeping  Asia's  spreading  sea, 

On  that  great  morn  of  May's  first  day, 
Boomed  the  loud  note  at  Cavite 

That  hailed  an  infant  Liberty. 


SB  WAR-TIME   ECHOES 

God  of  our  country,  God  of  the  world, 

Our  pray'r,  that  we  may  work  Thy  plan 
And  do  Thy  will  toward  Asian  man  — 

The  cause   Thy  cause,  our  flag  unfurled. 

—  Anon. 
*    *    * 

A    SONG    FOR    OUR    FLEETS. 


A  SONG  for  our  fleets  —  our  iron  fleets 

Of  grim  and  savage  beauty, 
That  plow  their  way  through  fields  of  spray, 

To  follow  a  nation's  duty! 
The  winds  may  blow  and  the  waves  may  flow 

And  stars  may  hide  their  faces, 
But  little  we  reck;  our  stars  o'er  deck 

Still  glitter  within  their  places! 

Let  never  a  one  who  gazes  on 

This  pageant  calm  but  splendid 
Doubt  that  our  coasts  from  hostile  hosts 

Will  gallantly  be  defended! 
A  desperate  foe  may  wish  us  woe; 

But  what  is  their  petty  knavery 
Against  the  right,  when  backed  with  might, 

And  Anglo-Saxon  bravery  ? 

A  song  for  our  fleets — our  gallant  fleets, 

'Neath  flags  of  glory  flying, 
That  carry  the  aid,  so  long  delayed, 

To  those  that  are  crushed  and  dying! 
And  flames  may  glow,  and  blood  may  flow; 

But  still,  with  a  stern  endeavor. 
We'll  rule  the  main,  and  lash  foul  Spain 

From  our  Western  World  forever! 

—  Will  Carleton. 


PATRIOTIC   POEMS.  89 

OFF    TO   SEA! 


OUR  ships  have  put  to  sea. 

And  to  windward  and  to  lee 
The  old  flag  is  flying,  flying,  flying; 

And  it  ripples  its  red  bars 

And  the  glory  of  its  stars 
Where  the  spirits  of  the  stormy  deep  are  crying: 

«On  to  the  fight! 

Let  the  stars  of  Freedom  light 
The  land  beneath  the  tyrant's  banner  gory; 

Till  every  tyrant  flag 

Is  a  torn  and  trampled  rag, 
And  alone  in  the  sunlight  waves  ( Old  Glory ! }  w 

Our  ships  have  put  to  sea, 

And  the  light  of  Liberty 
Dawns  o'er  a  people  sad  and  dying; 

The  chains  of  thralldom  break, 

And  the  thrones  of  tyrants  shake, 
While  the  spirits  of  the  stormy  deep  are  crying: 

<(Fare  ye  to  the  fight! 

Let  the  stars  of  Freedom  light 
The  land  beneath  the  tyrant's  banner  gory, 

Till  every  tyrant  flag 

Is  a  torn  and  trampled  rag, 
And  alone  in  the  sunlight  waves  ( Old  Glory ! >  w 

—  Atlanta  Constitution. 


90  WAR-TIME  ECHOES 

DEWEY. 

WHY  do  we  put  Dewey 
Above  all  the  rest  ? 
Of  all  the  war's  heroes 
Why  is  he  the  best? 
We  hear  Dewey's  name, 
And  our  breasts  are  aflame, 

With  love  for  the  grizzled  old  tar- 
Why  is  Dewey  enshrined 
In  the  heart  and  the  mind, 

As  Lincoln  and  Washington  are  — 
Why  do  we  put   Dewey 

Above  all  the  the  rest  ? 
Of  all  the  war's  heroes 
Why  is  he  the  best? 

When  the '  tocsin  was  sounded 

And  the  war  god  awoke, 
When  the  bonds  that  had  held  us 

As  men  of  peace  broke, 
When  others  rushed  hither 

And  thither,  at  sea, 
When  other  men  argued 

In  war  councils,  he, 
With  a  calmness  supernal, 

And  a  course  that  was  plain, 
Weighed  anchor  and  started 

Across  the  blue  main; 
He  stayed  not  for  parley, 

Nor  waited  nor  planned 
For  conditions  to  favor 

The  project  in  hand  — 


PATRIOTIC   POEMS  91 

As  the  arrow  flies  unto  its  mark  he  set  out, 
Unhindered  by  fear  and  a  stranger  to  doubt. 

Is  there  fear  in  the  lion 

That  has  scented  his  prey  ? 
Does  he  linger  for  dangers 

Concealed  by  the  way  ? 
Does  he  hunt  for  clear  pathways 

To  lead  him*  around 
The  rocks  that  before  him 

Incumber  the  ground  ? 
Does  he  crouch  in  some  corner 

And  warily  wait, 
Intrusting  his  chances 

To  favors  of  fate  ? 

Nay,  the  lion  has  none  of  the  cunning  that  brings 
The   fawn  'neath    the  limb  where  the   sleek  tiger 
swings. 

E'en  as  a  lion  the  grim  hero  went 

To  the  spot  where  Spain's  weapons  lie  blackened 

and  bent; 

He  stayed  not  for  danger,  nor  favoring  tide; 
Nor    thought    of    the    snares    perhaps   hidden    in- 
side— 

He  entered  and  struck  down  the  foe  in  his  lair, 
And  set  up  the  standard  of  liberty  there! 
And  when  it  was  done  —  when  the  world  stood  in 

awe, 

Still  grasping  the  sword,  he  propounded  the  law; 
He  invited  no  cheers,  nor  indulged  in  high  boasts, 
But  silently  sat  as  a  new  lord  of  hosts 
With  a  simpleness  such  as  God  gives  but  to  those 
Too  big  to  be  swayed  by  the  world's  petty  woes. 


92  WAR-TIME   ECHOES 

He  marked  out  his  lines,  and  men  saw  where  the}" 
lay, 

Nor  sought  to  cross  over,  nor  questioned  his  sway; 

Each  word  that  he  spoke  was  the  word  that  was 
meet ; 

Each  act  he  essayed  when  he  stayed  was  com- 
plete — 

The  mazes  that  lay  all  around  him  he  trod 

As  only  he  may  who  is  led  by  his  God. 

And  so  we  put  Dewey 

Above  all  the  rest 
Of  all  the  war's  heroes, 

Proclaiming"  him  best; 
We  hear  Dewey's  name 
And  our  breasts  are  aflame 

With  love  for  the  grizzled  old  tar; 
We  have  got  him  enshrined 
In  each  heart  and  each  mind 

As  Lincoln  and  Washington  are  — 
Straightforward  and  simple  above  all  the  rest, 
With  a  grandeur  that  touches  the  lowliest  breast. 
—  S.  E.  Ktser,  in  Cleveland  Leader. 


*    *    * 


GUAM. 


AN  AGE  of  wonders  dawned  on  Guam, 
Beneath  the  touch  of  Uncle  Sam! 
A  time  of  restlessness  and  light 
To  take  the  place  of  peace  and  night! 


PATRIOTIC   POEMS  93 

Ah,  Guam,  asleep  upon  the  ocean's  breast, 
Lulled  by  the  soft  Pacific  into  rest, 
Unending  as  the  sea  is,  and  as  still, 
Why  need  you  wake  to  wonders  and  to  ill? 

You  are  so  very  little,  Guam,  that  you 
Are  but  a  misty  speck  upon  the  blue 
Infinity  of  earth,  and  Guam, 
Although  'tis  well  to  be  of  Uncle  Sam, 

That  is  not  all  of  peacefulness  nor  rest, 
As  you  have  known  them  on  the  gentle  breast 
Of  your  Pacific,  where  through  all  the  years 
You  never  knew  our  world  of  hopes  and  fears. 

Ah,  dear,  delicious,  distant,  doleless  isle, 
Asleep  for  ages  where  those  soft  skies  smile, 
How  rude  would  your  awakening  be 
Roused  by  a  new  world's  energy! 

Ah,  gentle  Guam,  keep  shut  those  eyes  of  yours, 
Care  not  for  what  is  not  upon  your  shores; 
You  are  so  little,  Guam,  away  so  far, 
The  busy  world  might  leave  you  as  you  are. 

An  age  of  wonders,  sorrows,  cares, 
In  which  each  state  and  nation  shares! 
They  call  it  dawn.     Guam,  is  such  light 
A  greater  blessing  than  your  night? 

It  may  be,  Guam;   or  if  it  be  or  not, 
What  harm  can  be,  if  only  one  small  spot 
On  all  the  earth  is  left  still  unoppressed, 
Where  man  may  stop  and  breathe  and  rest  ? 
—  //-'.  y.  Lamp  ton,  in  the  New    York  Sun. 


94  WAR-TIME   ECHOES 

THE    HERO    DOWN    BELOW. 


WHILE  you  sing  of  Schley  and  Hobson, 

And  of  gallant  Dewey,  too, 

While  with   thoughts  of   them  your   hearts   are 
all  aglow, 

I  would  sing  you  of  another  — 

Just  as  brave  and  just  as  true  — 
Of  the  man  who  does  the  stoking  down  below. 

For  his  home  is  in  the  hell, 

Down  below, 
And  he  doesn't  hear  the  yell, 

Down  below, 

That  goes  up  when  firing's  done, 
When  the  ship  he's  with  has  won  — 
He  must  keep  a-shoveling  on 

Down  below. 

Though  his  name  is  never  mentioned, 

Though  we  see  or  know  him  not, 
Though  his  deeds  may  never  bring  him  worldly 
fame, 

He's  a  man  above  the  others  — 

And  the  bravest  of  the  lot  — 
And  the  hero  of  the  battle,  just  the  same. 

He's  the  man  who  does  the  work, 

Down  below, 
From  the  labor  does  not  shirk, 

Down  below, 

He  is  shoveling  day  and  night, 
Feeding  flames  a-blazing  bright. 


PATRIOTIC   POEMS  95 

Keeping  up  a  killing  fight, 
Down  below. 

In  the  awful  heat  and  torture 

Of  the  fires  that  leap  and  dance 
In  and  out  the  furnace  doors  that  never  close, 

On  in  silence  he  must  work, 

For  with  him  there's  ne'er  a  chance 
On  his  brow  to  feel  the  outer  breeze  that  blows. 

For  they've  locked  him  in  a  room, 

Down  below, 
In  a  burning,  blazing  tomb, 

Down  below, 

Where  he  cannot  see  the  sky, 
Cannot  learn  in  time  to  fly, 
When  destruction  stalketh  nigh, 

Down  below. 

While  the  fighting  fierce  is  waging, 

And  the  cannon  overhead 
With  their  sizzling  shells  the  enemy  surround, 

To  the  stoker  down  below, 

Not  a  word  is  ever  said, 
To  his  ear  is  borne  no  echo  of  a  sound. 

When  they  open  wide  his  door, 

Down  below, 
And  they  cry,  (<  Your  work  is  o'er, 

Down  below !  w 

There  they  find  him  weakly  lying 
On  a  pile  of  coal  and  crying 
Out  in  madness,  for  he's  dying, 

Down  below. 

—  Chicago  Times-Herald. 


96  WAR-TIME   ECHOES 

HOL'    DEM    PHILUPPINES. 


MISTAH  DEWEY,  yo's  all  right, 
Hoi'  dem  Philuppines! 

Made  yo'  point  an'  won  yo'  fight, 
Hoi'  dem  Philuppines! 

If  dem  natives  get  too  gay 

Make  dem  walk  the  Spanish  way; 

Show  dem  dat  yo's  come  to  say, 
Hoi*  dem  Philuppines! 

Doctah  Dewey,  doan'  yo'  care, 

Hoi'  dem  Philuppines! 
Let  dat  German  ge'man  swear, 

Hoi'  dem  Philuppines! 
Reckon  dat  yo'  saw  dem  first, 
Just  yo'  say  to  Wienerwurst: 
<(  Come  en  take  dem,  if  yo'  durst  ! 
Hoi'  dem  Philuppines! 

Fesser  Dewey,  you  is  wa'am, 

Hoi'  dem  Philuppines! 
Reckon  yo'  can  ride  de  storm, 

Hoi'  dem  Philuppines! 
Tell  him  dat  yo'  will  not  grieve 
If  old  Diederichs  should  leave  — 
Keep  dat  razar  up  your  sleeve, 
Hoi'  dem  Philuppines! 

A'm'al  Dewey,  watch  yo'  kyards, 
Hoi'  dem  Philuppines! 

Folks  all  sen'  yo'  best  regyards, 
Hoi'  dem  Philuppines! 


PATRIOTIC   POEMS  97 

Make  dem  fo'iners  lay  low, 
If  dey  'sist  to  pester  so, 
Make  dem  take  dah  clothes  and  go, 
Hoi'  dem  Philuppines! 
—  George   V.  Hobart,  in  Baltimore  Nevus. 

*    *    * 
THE    SHELL. 


I'M  THE  shell,  the  thirteen  inch, 
Of  the  kind  that  never  flinch, 
Never  slacken,  never  sway, 
When  the  quarry  blocks  the  way. 

Silent  in  the  belted  breech, 
Peering  thro'  the  rifled  reach, 
Waiting,  while  I  scan  the  sea, 
For  a  word  to  set  me  free. 

As  my  eager  eyes  I  strain, 
Heaves  in  view  a  ship  of  Spain. 
Hark!   the  wild  alarums  ring, 
As  the  men  to  quarters  spring; 

Then  the  word  of  sharp  command, 
On  the  lanyard  rests  a  hand. 
«  Fire !  »    From  out  the  rifled  core, 
On  the  cannon's  breath  I  soar. 

Twice  five  hundred  pounds  of  steel, 
Where  on  high  the  eagles  reel; 
For  my  mark  the  nearing  foe 
Messenger  of  death  I  go! 


98  WAR-TIME   ECHOES 

Hark!  the  shriek  of  unleashed  hell! 
Tis  the  speech  of  shell  to  shell: 
Brother,  shall  I  kill  or  spare  ? 
"Mark  the  faces  blanching  there !* 

Brother,  shall  I  strike  or  swerve  ? 
(<  Death  to  them  that  death  deserve ! 
Mark  the  vessel  onward  come ! * 
Mark  the  thirteen  inch  strike  home. 

Crash!  I  feel  the  steel-clad  ship 
Split  and  stagger,  rend  and  rip; 
Then  a  shriek  and  then  a  hush, 
As  the  dark'ning  waters  rush 

Thro'  the  torn  and  gaping  side 
Of  the  foeman's  hope  and  pride. 
To  the  bottom  of  the  sea 
Go  a  thousand  lives  with  me! 

I'm  the  shell,  the  thirteen  inch, 
Of  the  kind  that  never  flinch, 
Never  slacken,  never  sway, 
When  the  quarry  blocks  the  way. 

—  Gustav  Kobbt,  in  Munsey 's  Magazine. 

*    *    * 
THE    FARMER'S    BOYS. 


I  OWN  I'm  rather  lonely,  for  my  help  has  gone  away, 
The  harvest  time  is  over,  and  cut  is  all  the  hay; 
And  I  long  to  get  the  papers,  but  I  fear  to  see  them 

come, 
For  Tom  and  Jack  are  fighting  to  the  music  of  the 

drum. 


PATRIOTIC   POEMS  99 

The  boys  are  patriotic,  like  their  father  long  ago, 
When  he  heard  the  call  of   Lincoln  and  went  for  to 

meet  the  foe; 
And  when  they  came  to  me  and  said  that  they  were 

young  and  strong, 
I  told  my  wife  I  knew  the  farm  would  never  hold 

them  long. 

There's   Jack;   he  has  his   mother's  eyes,  his  face  is 

round  and  fair, 
He  has  his  mother's  gentle  ways,  her  soft  and  silky 

hair; 
And  Tom;  they  say  he  looks  like  me,  raw-boned,  and 

tanned  and  stout, 
The  kind  of  boys,  the  captain  says,  to  storm  the  strong 

redoubt. 

I  saw  the  thing  a- brewing,  but  I  had  no  word  to  say, 

The  boys  grew  restless,  for  they  read  the  papers 
every  day; 

And  when  the  call  for  men  was  made  they  hurried 
down  the  lane, 

And  in  the  village  joined  the  boys  who'll  ne'er  <(  for- 
get the  <  Maine.  >» 

My  wife  and  I  together  sit  when  all  the  work  is  done, 
And  watch  the  hills  in  silence  as  they  redden  'neath 

the  sun; 
She  knows   that    I   am    thinking   of   the   boys    we've 

sent  afar, 
And  she  is  praying  silently  for  peace  to  end  the  war. 

They'll  never  shirk   their  duty;    Tom    and  Jack   are 

true  as  steel; 
Before   their   might,  I'm    proud   to   say,  the    Spanish 

foe  will  reel; 


loo  WAR-TIME   ECHOES 

What  tales  will  Jack  bring  back  with  him   from  re- 
gions far  away, 
And  Tom  will  tell  of  fighting  down  by  Santiago  Bay ! 

Old  Glory  will  not  blush  for  them,  they'll  nobly  wear 

the  blue; 
They  won't  disgrace  the    Buckeye  farm;    to   country 

both  are  true. 
I  told  them  when  they  started,  as  I  held  their  hands 

in  mine, 
That  I  was  once  a  soldier  in  the  grand  old  Union  line. 

When  I  lead  the  horses  homeward  through  the  brac- 
ing twilight  air, 

I  see  two  boys  in  uniform,  heroic,  tall  and  fair, 

And  one  looks  like  his  mother  when  I  wooed  her 
long  ago, 

And  the  other's  like  his  father,  with  his  curious  ways, 
you  know. 

It  seems  they're   with   me  all  the  time,  but  'yet  they 

are  afar; 

Upon  their  bayonets  doth  fall  the  light  of  tropic  star. 
They   know    the    old    farm    misses    them,   no    matter 

where  they  roam, 
And  every  night  I  know  they  think  of  mother's  face 

and  home 

We  pray  together,  wife   and  I,  we  kneel   before   the 

throne, 
And  ask  the   Father's  care  for  those  so   dear   to   us 

alone ; 
May  we  hear  from  lips  we  long  to  kiss,  though  now 

they're  far  away, 
The  story  of  Manila  and  of  Santiago  Bay. 

—  T.  C.  Harbaugh,  in  Ohio  Farmer. 


PATRIOTIC  POSMS/»,  »      -I":*:  -|:  J^di:  ;\ 
THE    BAND    PLAYED    ON. 


(As  the  Californians,  under  Colonel  Smith,  came  up  the  beach,  their  band 
played  the  national  air,  accompanied  by  the  whistling  of  Mauser  bullets, 
and  during  the  sharpshooting  continued  to  encourage  the  men  with  inspir- 
ing music. —  Dispatch  from  Manila.} 

<(  FORWARD  !  w    the  Colonel  sharply  said. 
With  eager  eye  and  steady  tread 
They  crossed  the  strip  of  shining  sand 
In  rhythm  with  their  pulsing  band. 

Up  from  the  bay  the  great  guns  roared, 

High  o'er  their  heads  the  swift  shells  soared, 

But  true  and  steady  rose  the  drum 

Above  the  battle's  growing  hum, 

And  wild  and  strident  shrilled  the  horn, 

As  if  it  shrieked  in  loyal  scorn. 

The  bullets  whistled  o'er  the  strand; 

A  crimson  stain  was  on  the  sand. 

<(  Fire !  w    shrieked  the  colonel,  and  a  roar 

Went  booming  down  Manila's  shore. 

And  while  its  echoes  died  away, 

The  fearless  band  in  steady  play, 

As  on  parade,  so  calm,  so  free, 

Poured  forth  the  song  of  freedom's  key. 

It  roused  those  dauntless  Yankee  hearts; 
They  felt  the  thrill  the  song  imparts, 
In  rhythm  with  the  horn  and  drum, 
Each  lip  the  dear  old  words  did  hum. 
They  fought  like  brave  men,  good  and  true, 
They  pressed  ahead  where  bullets  flew, 
And  till  they'd  conquered  every  don 
The  band  played  on. 

—  Cleveland  Plain  Dealer, 


WAR-TIME  ECHOES 

TO    THE    POWERS. 


From  "Harper's  Weekly."    Copyright,  1898    Harper  &  Brothers. 


WHAT  shall  we  do  with  the  Philippines? 
Well,  Europe,  peep  behind  the  scenes, 
And  what  you  see  tell  your  marines. 

Our  plans,  of  course,  are  not  complete; 
Won't  be  till  Merritt  takes  his  seat, 
Backed  up  by  Army  and  by  Fleet. 

That  done,  we'll  choose  the  fairest  spots, 
Divide  'em  up  in  city  plots, 
And  sell  'em  off  as  corner  lots. 

And  where  the  Spanish  foe  now  loots, 
Mayhap  you'll  find  some  substitutes, 
Like  vaudeville  and  chuting  chutes. 
And  possibly  we'll  take  those  Isles, 
Whereon  sweet  peace  so  rarely  smiles, 
And  give  them  to  our  men  of  wiles. 

To  Croker  one,  and  one  to  Platt, 
And  one  to  Bryan  —  men  like  that  — 
So  that  ive'll  know  just  where  they're  at. 

But  one  thing's  fixed  as  any  star: 
We  will  not  move  those  Islands  far, 
But  let  them  stay  just  where  they  are. 

We  hope,  dear  Concert,  great  and  square, 
This  answer  strikes  you  as  most  fair. 
If  not,  why  —  well,  old  Dewey's  there. 

—  John  Kendrick  Bangs. 


PATRIOTIC   POEMS  103 

THE    FLAG. 


INSCRIBED  TO  ADMIRAL  DEWEY,  TUNE:   «  LAURIGER." 

ROLL  a  river  wide  and  strong, 

Like  the  tides  a-swinging, 
Lift  the  joyful  floods  of  song, 

Set  the  mountains  ringing. 
Run  the  lovely  banner  high,— 

Crimson  morning-glory!  — 
Field  as  blue  as  yonder  sky, 

Every  star  a  story. 

Let  the  people,  heart  and  lip, 

Hail  the  gleaming  splendor! 
Let  the  guns  from  shore  and  ship 

Acclamation  render! 
All  ye  oceans,  clap  your  hands! 

Echo  plains  and  highlands, 
Speed  the  voice  thro'  all  the  lands 

To  the  Orient  islands. 

Darling  flag  of  Liberty! 

Law  and  love  revealing, 
All  the  downcast  turn  to  thee, 

For  thy  help  appealing. 
In  the  front  for  human  right, 

Flash  thy  stars  of  morning. 
All  that  hates  and  hides  the  light, 

Flies  before  thy  warning. 

By  the  colors  of  the  day, 

By  the  breasts  that  wear  them, 


104  WAR-TIME  ECHOES 

To  the  living  God  we  pray 

For  the  brave  that  bear  them! 

Run  the  rippling  banner  high; 
Peace  or  war  the  weather, 

Cheers  or  tears,  we'll  live  or  die 
Under  it  together. 

—  M.   IV.  Stryker,  in  the  Interior, 


*    *    * 


OL'    PECOS    BILL, 


OR    GENERAL    WILLIAM     SHAFTER. 


DON'T   hardly   reckon    there   ever   was   a   tougher   ol' 

soldier  pill, 
In  any  way  that  you'd  size  him  up,  than  that  same 

ol'  Pecos  Bill, 

Fur    to    handle    the    reds   when    they   showed    their 

teeth,  an'  the  whites  that  laughed  at  the  law. 

A   great   big   man   with   a   great   big   heart,    an'    the 

proper  sand  in  his  craw. 
I   knowed   the   ol'   bunch   o'   scrap    fur   years   in   the 

State  o'  the  Single  Star, 
I've  camped  with  him  on  the  scoutin'  trail  when  the 

Injuns  was  huntin'  war, 
I've    bin   with    him   in  the    frontier    fort   an'   out   in 

the  huntin'  camp, 
An'   I'm   free   to   say  as   a  thorrerbred,  ol'    Bill   was 

the  proper  stamp. 


PATRIOTIC   POEMS  105 

As  fur  as  bein'  a  Christian  goes,  a  saint  o'  the  pious 

brand, 
An'  sich  like  racket,  he  never  held  a  winnin'  trump 

in  his  hand; 
That  wasn't  ol'   Gin'ral    Shafter's   style,  he  wa'n't  o' 

the  pray  in'  kind, 
But  all  the  same  at  the  trumpet  call  he'll  never  be 

left  behind. 
I've    heerd    him    sw'ar    till    the    air'd    pop,    and    the 

breezes  'd  spit  red  fire, 

An'  reel  off  talk  o'  the  snappy  sort  that  ol'  Beelze- 
bub 'd  admire, 
But  all  the  same  his  ol'  hostile  heart  was  as  soft  as 

the  heart  of  a  kid, 
When    want   an'    misery   caught    his    eye,    which    the 

same  it  frequently  did. 


His  creed  war'  justice  to  high  an'  low,  his  Bible  the 

Golden  .Rule, 
I   reckon   his   boy  pants   never  warmed   a   seat   in   a 

Sunday-school, 
An'  he  never  worried  the   Lord,   I  know,   by  recitin' 

a  chestnut  prayer 
That    died    afore   it   war'   half   way   up    on    the    trail 

through  the  Texas  air; 
But    I've   a  bundle  o'  cash   that   says   he   stands   jes' 

as  good  a  chance 
O'    heaven    as    some    that    bore    the    Chief    with    a 

powerful  song  and  dance. 
An'   when  he's   called   from   the    service   here  to  the 

camp  in  the  better  land, 
He'll    hold    the   rank   that   he   won   by   worth,    if    he 

don't  wear  the  pious  brand. 


106  WAR-TIME  ECHOES 

When  ol'  Bill  come  to  the  Texas  land  the  Pecos 
war'  overrun 

With  the  toughest  outfit  o'  desperate  men  that  ever 
handled  a  gun, 

An'  the  Injuns  hankered  fur  paleface  ha'r,  an 
swarmed  through  the  hills  an'  dells, 

A  rippin'  the  echoes  all  to  strings  with  their  devil- 
invented  yells. 

Jes'  go  an'  look  at  that  valley  now,  with  its  oceans 
o'  golden  grain, 

An'  its  homes  o'  peace  upon  every  hand,  an'  its  cat- 
tle on  every  plain, 

An'  you'll  say  that  it  duplicates  Gloryland,  the  king- 
dom on  Zion's  hill, 

An'  who's  responsible  fur  the  change  ?  I  reckon  it's 
Pecos  Bill. 


I  allus  said  if  a  war  'd  come  an'  they'd  give  the  ol' 

man  a  chance, 
He'd  lead  the  foes  o'  the  Glory  flag  the  liveliest  sort 

of  a  dance, 
An*  when   I  war'  readin'  the  other  day  of   his  work 

on  the  Cuby  shore, 
I  ripped  a  streak  in  the  Texas  air  with  a  firmament  - 

shakin'  roar! 
I    danced    the    Apache    victory    dance,    an'    whooped 

like  a  painted  brave, 
At  the  way  his  Texican  cowboy  lads  fixed  Spaniards 

in  shape  fur  the  grave. 
An*    I    filled   my  system   cl'ar   to   the   neck   with   the 

snappiest  sort  o'  swill, 
In  visible  honor  o'  Uncle   Sam  an'  his  pardner,   ol' 

Pecos   Bill. 

—  The  Denver  Poet. 


PATRIOTIC   POEMS  107 

THE    ISLANDS    OF    THE    SEA. 

GOD  is  shaping  the  great  future,  of  the  islands  of  the 

sea; 
He  has  sown  the  blood  of  martyrs,  and  the  fruit  is 

liberty ; 
In  thick  clouds  and  in  darkness,  He  has  sent  abroad 

His  word; 
He  has  given  a  haughty  nation   to   the   cannon  and 

the  sword. 

He  has  seen  a  people  moaning  in  the  thousand 
deaths  they  die; 

He  has  heard  from  child  and  woman  a  terrible  dark 
cry; 

He  has  given  the  wasted  talent  of  the  steward  faith- 
less found 

To  the  youngest  of  the  nations  with  His  abundance 
crowned. 

He  called  her  to  do  justice  where  none  but  she  had 

power ; 
He  called  her  to  do   mercy  to   her  neighbor   at   the 

door; 
He    called   her    to   do   vengeance    for  her   own    sons 

foully  dead; 
Thrice  did  He  call  unto  her  before  she  harkened. 

She  has  gathered  the  vast  midland,  she  has  searched 

her  borders  round! 
There  has  been  a  mighty  hosting  of  her  children  on 

the  ground; 


io8  WAR-TIME   ECHOES 

Her  searchlights  lie  along  the  sea,  her  guns  are  loud 

on  land; 
To  do  her  will  upon  the  earth  her  armies  round  her 

stand. 

The  fleet,  at  her  commandment,  to  either  ocean  turns ; 
Belted  round  the  mighty  world  her  line  of  battle 

burns ; 
She   has    loosed    the    hot   volcanoes    of    the    ships   of 

flaming  hell; 
With  fire  and  smoke  and  earthquake  shock  her  heavy 

vengeance  fell. 

Be  jubilant,  free  Cuba,  our  feet  are  on  your  soil; 
Up  mountain  road,  through  jungle  growth,  our  brav- 
est for  thee  toil; 
There  is  no  blood  so  precious  as  their  wounds  pour 

forth  for  thee; 

Sweet   be  thy  joys,  free    Cuba  —  sorrows   have   made 
_thee  free. 

Nor  thou,  O  noble  nation,  who  wast  so  slow  to  wrath, 
With  grief  too  heavy-laden  follow  in  duty's  path; 
Not  for  ourselves  our  lives  are;   not  for  thyself  art 

thou; 
The  star  of  Christian  ages  is  shining  on  thy  brow. 

Rejoice,  O  mighty  mother,  that  God  hath  chosen  thee 
To  be  the  western  warder  of  the  islands  of  the  sea; 
He  lifteth  up,  He  casteth  down,  He  is  the  King  of 

kings, 
Whose    dread    commands   o'er    awe-struck    lands    are 

borne  on  eagles'  wings. 

—  George  E.    Woodberry,  in  New   York   Times. 


PATRIOTIC   POEMS  109 

THE    MISSOURI    MULE. 


AT  SANTIAGO,  when  the  fight 

Was  raging  at  its  very  height, 

Along  the  front  of  Wheeler's  men, 

On  mountain  top,  in  tangled  glen, 

Amid  the  battle's  crash  and  jar, 

A  startling  sound  came  from  afar; 

Long,  doleful  wails  in  trumpet  tones  — 

Bewildering  chorus  of  shrieks  and  groans  — 

<(  Ye-ee  haw !     Ye-ee  haw !     Ye-ee  haw ! )J 

Over  the  mountains  it  floated  down 

To  the  Spanish  trenches  before  the  town; 

That  startling  « Ye-ee, »  that  awful  "haw/ 

Like  the  screech  of  a  dull  and  rusty  saw; 

And  the  Captain  Don,  with  poised  sword, 

Paused,  and  forgot  to  speak  the  word  — 

<(  Retreat !  w     Stricken  dumb,  that  awful  wail 

Caused  his  soul  to  leap  and  quail  — 

(<  Ye-ee  haw !     Ye-ee  haw !     Ye-ee  haw ! }> 

The  Cuban,  hid  in  the  vines  and  grass, 

Remembered  his  slothful,   sullen  ass, . 

Plodding  along  with  its  load  to  town, 

Over  the  highway  dusty  and  brown; 

Measuring  the  way  with  its  clumsy  feet, 

And  giving  vent  to  an  awful  bleat; 

But  different  from  that  which  echoed  down 

To  the  Dons  in  the  trenches  before  the  town  — 

((  Ye-ee  haw !     Ye-ee  haw !     Ye-ee  haw ! }> 

Said  the  Captain  Don,  <(  Whence,  whence  that  sound 
That  seems  to  quake  the  sky  and  ground  ? w 
(<  From  the  Yankee  camp, }>  a  Sergeant  said ; 
(<  The  pigs  are  wailing  o'er  their  dead ! w 


no  WAR-TIME  ECHOES 

"Mayhap,"  said  the  Don,   «'tis  a  Yankee  shell, 
That  shocks  and  kills  with  its  awful  yell. 
Retreat!     Retreat!     Fall  back,  my  men; 
That  threatening  sound  —  it  comes  again !  w 
(( Ye-ee  haw !     Ye-ee  haw !     Ye-ee  haw !  w 

Up  spoke  a  gunner,  as  he  touched  his  hat; 
(('Tis  a  dreadful  sound,  but  I  don't  mind  that; 
I've  heard  it  oft  by  the  slippery  side 
Of  the  river  of  mud  so  long  and  wide, 
Which  flows  from  mountains  in  Yankee  land 
To  Loiiisiana's  reedy  strand. 
First  heard,  'twill  terror  wise  or  fool, 
'Tis  the  song  of  the  Yankee  army  mule. 
'Twas  raised  in  Missouri,  I  know  its  haw  — 
< Ye-ee  haw !     Ye-ee  haw !     Ye-ee  haw ! >  » 

—  S/.  Lout's  Globe-Democrat. 

*    *    * 

THE    REGULAR. 


A  SONG  for  the  Regular!  a  song  and  a  people's  cheer 

For  the  man  in  blue  who's  grit  clear  through  from 
end  to  end  o'  the  year. 

From  end  to  end  o'  the  year  he  goes  (with  little 
enough  for  pay), 

Through  summer  heat,  through  wintry  snows,  where 
duty  points  the  way, 

O  little  he  cares  for  the  cyclone's  breath  or  the  bliz- 
zard's nor' west  sweep, 

Content  enough  with  his  quarters  rough  and  never  a 
growl  at  his  keep, 

Ready  to  dig  or  ready  to  die,  ready  to  broil  or  freeze. 

So  long  as  he  knows  he  is  giving  his  blows  to  keep 
the  flag  on  the  breeze. 


PATRIOTIC   POEMS  III 

A   grasp   for   the    Regular!    a  grasp  for  the   brawny 

hand 
That  seeks  not  to  shirk  a  soldier's  work  however  it's 

cast  or  planned. 
O  grudging  enough,  in  the  hour  of  peace,  is  the  praise 

for  his  manly  deed; 
But  the  people  know  where  their  faith  must  go  in  the 

day  of  the  nation's  need. 
When  the  dogs  of  war  are  out  on  the  trail,  when  the 

foe  has  loosed  his  pack, 
Whose  trusty  rifle  is  ready  then  to  pay  him  doubly 

back? 
Who  meets  him  wherever  he  dares  to  claim  a  rood  of 

soil  in  fee 
And    makes    him    feel  the  might  of   his    steel   from 

mountain  crest  to  sea  ? 

Our  hearts  to  the  Regular!  our  hearts  to  our  daunt- 
less son 

Who   clears   the  way  for  a  freeman's  sway  with  his 
freeman's  sword  and  gun. 

We  saw  him  rush  through  the  tropic  brush  to  succor 
our  gallant  Wood, 

And  well  he  knew  when  the  bullets  flew  where  the 
forts  of  Caney  stood. 

O  who  will  forget  the  bloody  debt  he  wrote  from  his 
streaming  veins 

When  down  from  the  heights  of  San  Juan  he  looked 
on  the  Cuban  plains  ? 

O  who  will  forget  the  charge  he  made,  and  the  van- 
quished foe's  despair, 

When  the  banner  of  Spain  ne'er  rose  again,  and  they 
saw  Old  Glory  there  ? 

—  John  Jerome  Rooney,  in  the  New  York  Sun. 


H2  WAR-TIME   ECHOES 

ROUGH    RIDERS'    ROUNDELAY. 


The  favorite  marching  song  of  Roosevelt's  Rough 
Riders.     It  is  sung  to  the  tune  of  the  «  Irish  Fusileers. " 


ROUGH  RIDERS  were  we  from  the  West, 

Gallant  gentlemen  the  rest, 

Of  volunteers  the  best; 
Rallied  to  the  flag  at  Roosevelt's  behest 

To  carve  our  way  to  glory. 

When  the  Spanish  shells  and  shrapnel  burst, 
Our  losses  were  the  worst  — 
The  chaplain  even  cursed. 

((  Charge ! })  cried  Colonel  Roosevelt,  and  charged 

the  first 
To  carve  our  way  to  glory. 

Our  rapid  fire  tore  the  Spanish  line  to  bits, 

And  scared  them  into  fits; 

Their  leaders  lost  their  wits; 
Up  the  hill  we  went  and  stormed  their  rifle  pits 

To  carve  our  way  to  glory. 

Intrenched  within  the  pits  long  we  lay, 

By  night  as  well  as  day, 

Sore  at  the  delay; 
In  our  rear  the  yellow  fever  raged  at  Siboney 

To  cheat  us  out  of  glory. 

When  no  bloody  Spaniards  are  left  to  run, 

Cuba  will  be  won, 

Our  duty  will  be  done; 
Dead  and  living  every  single  one 

Has  carved  his  way  to  glory. 

—  Private  Edwin  Emerson. 


PATRIOTIC    POEMS  113 

THE    YANKEE    DUDE'LL    DO. 


WHEN  Cholly  swung  his  golf  stick  on  the  links, 

Or  knocked  the  tennis  ball  across  the  net, 
With  his  bangs  done  up  in  cunning  little  kinks  — 
When  he  wore  the  tallest  collar  he  could  get, 
Oh,  it  was  the  fashion  then 
To  impale  him  on  the  pen; 
To  regard  him    as   being   made   of  putty   through 

and  through; 

But  his  raquet's  laid  away, 
He  is  roughing  it  to-day, 
And  heroically  proving  that  the  Yankee  dude'll  do. 

When  Algy,  as  some  knight  of  old  arrayed, 

Was  the  leading  figure  at  the  <(  fawncy  ball, }> 
We  loathed  him  for  the  silly  part  he  played. 

He  was  set  down  as  a  monkey  —  that  was  all ; 
Oh,  we  looked  upon  him  then 
As  unfit  to  class  with  men, 
As  one  whose  heart  was   putty  and  whose   brains 

were  made  of  glue  — 
But  he's  thrown  his  cane  away, 
And  he  grasps  a  gun  to-day, 

While  the  world  beholds  him,  knowing  that  the  Yan- 
kee dude'll  do. 

When  Clarence  cruised  about  upon  his  yacht, 

Or  drove  out  with  his  footman  through  the  park, 
His  mamma,  it  was  generally  thought, 

Ought  to  have  him  in  her  keeping  after  dark; 
Oh,  we  ridiculed  him  then, 
We  impaled  him  on  the  pen, 

8 


114  WAR-TIME   ECHOES 

We   thought   he   was   effeminate,    we   dubbed    him 
«  Sissy, »  too  — 

But  he  nobly  marched  away  — 

He  is  eating  pork  to-day, 
And  heroically  proving  that  the  Yankee  dude '11  do. 

How  they  hurled  themselves  against  the  angry  foe, 

In  the  jungle  and  the  trenches  on  the  hill; 
When  the  word  to  charge  was  given,  every  dude  was 

on  the  go  — 

He  was  there  to  die,  to  capture  or  to  kill; 
Oh,  he  struck  his  level  when 
Men  were  called  upon  again 
To  preserve  the  ancient  glory  of  the  old  red,  white 

and  blue; 

He  has  thrown  his  spats  away, 
He  is  wearing  spurs  to-day, 

And    the    world    will  please    take    notice    that    the 
Yankee  dude'll  do. 

—  S.  E.  Kiser,  in  Cleveland  Leader. 


*    *   * 

THE  YANKEE  DOODLE  SOLDIER. 

WHAT'S   the   use  to  be  a  braggin'  about   any  special 

lot, 
When  you've  got  a  lot  of  sojers  that'll  never  miss  a 

shot, 

Ner  run  from  any  battle  that  an  army  ever  fit? 
By  gosh,  I'm   jes'  a-thinkin'  that   yer   Uncle   Sam  "is 

« it » ! 


PATRIOTIC   POEMS  115 

They'll  f oiler   up   Ol'  Glory  if  it   takes  'em    ter   the 

sky, 
An'  they're  jes'  the  kind  o*  fellers  that  air  not  afraid 

ter  die. 

Shoutin',   singin',  an'    a-fightin'   under   bilin'    Suthern 

sun  — 

Nary  one  a-gittin'  skeery  er  a-givin'  up  his  gun. 
Bands  a-playin'  purty   music   while   the   cannons   rip 

and  roar  — 
Say,    that's    patriotism    fer   ye   that    yer    never    seen 

afore ! 
No,  yer   can't   pick   out  the   best   un,  fer   they're  all 

as  true  as  steel. 
An'   the   Yankee    Doodle    sojer   is   the    flower   of   the 

field. 

Thar's  Dewey,  he's  a  hero  if  thar's  sich  a  thing  on 

earth  — 
An'   Hobson,  he's   another  —  never   knew  the   feller's 

worth. 
So's  Schley,  that  quiet   scrapper,  an'   Cervera  knows 

it,  too; 
An'   Sampson  is  a  good  un  or  he  wouldn't  wear  the 

blue. 
Then   thar's    Shafter,   an'   thar's   Merritt  an'   a  dozen 

more, 
Like    Bob    Evans,    who's    a-cussin'    everything   along 

the  shore. 

But  thar's  others  that  air  fighters,  though  they  ain't 

got  shoulder  straps  — 
Ain't    a-shinin'    with    epaulettes    an    a    lot    of    other 

traps. 


Il6  WAR-TIME   ECHOES 

They're  the  privates,  bless  the  boys,  that  air  standin' 

side  by  side  — 
They  air  fighters,  they  air  heroes,  they  air  Yankees, 

durn  my  hide! 

An'  now  I  am  a-yellin'  fer  the  hull  tarnation  lot  — 
They're  a  splendid  lot  o'  sojers  that'll  never  miss  a 

shot. 

—  Denver  Times. 

*    *    * 


"APPLES    FINKEY))  — THE   WATER-BOY, 


<(  APPLES  FINKEY!"     Many  a  name 

Has  a  grander  sound  in  the  roll  of  fame; 

Many  a  more  resplendent  deed 

Has  burst  to  light  in  the  hour  of  need; 

But  never  a  one  from  a  truer  heart, 
Striving  to  know  and  to  do  its  part. 

Striving,  under  his  skin  of  tan, 

With  the  years  of  a  lad  to  act  like  a  man. 

And  who  was  <(  Apples  ? w    I  hear  you  ask. 
To  trace  his  descent  were  indeed  a  task. 

Winding  and  vague  was  the  family  road  — 
And,  perhaps,  like  Topsy,  (<he  only  growed." 

But  into  the  camp  he  lolled  one  noon, 
Barefoot,  and  whistling  a  darky  tune, 

Into  the  camp  of  his  dusky  peers  — 
The  gallant  negro  cavaliers  — 


-PATRIOTIC   POEMS  117 

The  Tenth,  preparing,  at  break  o'  day, 

To  move  to  the  transport  down  in  the  bay. 

Boom!   roared  the  gun  —  the  ship  swung  free, 
With  her  good  prow  turned  to  the  Carib  Sea. 

((  Pity  it  was,  for  the  little  cuss, 

We  couldn't  take  (  Apples  }  along  with  us, w 

The  trooper  said,  as  he  walked  the  deck, 
And  Tampa  became  a  vanishing  speck. 

What's  that  ?   A  stir  and  a  creak  down  there 
In  the  piled-up  freight  —  then  a  tuft  of  hair, 

Crinkled  and  woolly  and  all  unshorn  — 

And  out  popped  (<  Apples }>  <(  ez  shore's  yer  born !  w 

Of  course  he  wasn't  provided  for 

In  the  colonel's  roll  or  the  rules  of  war; 

But  somehow  or  other  the  troop  was  glad 
To  welcome  the  little  darky  lad. 

You  know  how  our  brave  men,  white  and  black. 
Landed  and  followed  the  Spaniard's  track; 

And  the  Tenth  was  there  in  the  very  front, 
Seeking  and  finding  the  battle's  brunt. 

Onward  they  moved  through  the  living  hell 
Where  the  enemy's  bullets  like  raindrops  fell, 

Down  through  the  brush,  and  onward  still 
Till  they  came  to  the  foot  of  San  Juan  hill  — 


n8  WAR-TIME   ECHOES 

Then  up  they  went,  with  never  a  fear, 

And  the  heights  were  won  with  a  mad,  wild  cheer ! 

And  where  was  (<  the  mascot  Finkey  w  then  ? 
In  the  surging  ranks  of  the  fighting  men ! 

Wherever  a  trooper  was  seen  to  fall, 
In  the  open  field  or  the  chaparral; 

Wherever  was  found  a  wounded  man; 

((  Apples >}  was  there  with  his  water  and  can. 

About  him  the  shrapnel  burst  in  vain  — 
He  was  up  and  on  with  his  work  again. 

The  sharpshooters  rattled  a  sharp  tattoo, 
The  singing  Mausers  around  him  flew. 

But  (( Apples  w  was  busy  —  too  busy  to  care 
For  the  instant  death  and  the  danger  there. 

Many  a  parched  throat  burning  hot, 
Many  a  victim  of  Spanish  shot, 

Was  blessed  that  day,  ere  the  fight  was  won 
Under  the  tropical,  deadly  sun, 

By  the  cool  drops  poured  from  the  water-can 
Of  the  dusky  lad  who  was  all  a  man. 

In  the  forward  trenches,  at  close  of  day, 
Burning  with  fever,  <(  Finkey >J  lay. 

He  seemed  to  think  through  the  long,  wet  night, 
He  still  was  out  in  the  raging  fight, 


PATRIOTIC   POEMS  119 

For  once  he  spoke  in  his  troubled  sleep; 
(<  I'se  comin',  Cap.,  ef  my  legs'll  keep!" 

Next    day  —  and    the    next  —  and    the    next — he 

stayed 
In  the  trenches  dug  by  the  Spaniard's  spade, 

For  the  sick  and  wounded  could  not  get  back 
Over  the  mountainous,  muddy  track. 

But  the  troopers  gave  what  they  had  to  give 
That  the  little  mascot  might  stick  and  live. 

Over  him  many  a  dark  face  bent, 

And  through  it  all  he  was  well  content  — 

Well  content  as  a  soldier  should 

Who  had  fought  his  fight  and  the  foe  withstood. 

Slowly  these  stern  beleaguered  men 
Nursed  him  back  to  his  strength  again, 

Till  one  fair  day  his  glad  eyes  saw 

A  sight  that  filled  him  with  pride  and  awe, 

For  there,  as  he  looked  on  the  stronghold  down, 
The  flag  was  hoisted  over  the  town, 

And  none  in  that  host  felt  a  sweeter  joy 
Than  (<  Apples  Finkey , w  the  water-boy. 

-  John   Jerome  Rooney,  in  New  York  Sun. 


20  WAR-TIME  ECHOES 


THE    REG'LAR    ARMY    MAN. 


HE  AIN'T  no  gold-lace  (<  Belvidere," 

Ter  sparkle  in  the  sun; 
He  don't  parade  with  gay  cockade, 

And  posies  in  his  gun; 
He  ain't  no  (< pretty  soldier  boy," 

So  lovely,  spick,  and  span, 
He  wears  a  crust  of  tan  and  dust, 

The  Reg'lar  Army  man ; 
The  marchin',  parchin', 
Pipe-clay  starchin', 

Reg'lar  Army  man. 

He  ain't  at  home  in  Sunday  School, 

Nor  yet  at  social  tea, 
And  on  the  day  he  gets  his  pay 

He's  apt  ter  spend  it  free; 
He  ain't  no  temp'rance  advocate, 

He  likes  to  fill  the  can, 
He's  kinder  rough  an'  maybe  tough, 

The  Reg'lar  Army  man; 
The  rarin',  tearin', 
Sometimes  swearin', 

Reg'lar  Army  man. 

No  state'll  call  him  <( noble  son," 

He  ain't  no  ladies'  pet, 
But  let  a  row  start  anyhow, 

They'll  send  for  him,  you  bet! 
He  don't  cut  any  ice  at  all 

In  Fashion's  social  plan, 


PATRIOTIC   POEMvS  121 

He  gits  a  job  to  face  a  mob, 
The  Reg'lar  Army  man; 

The  millin',  drillin', 

Made  fer  killin', 
Reg'lar  Army  man. 

They  ain't  no  tears  shed  over  him 

When  he  goes  off  ter  war, 
He  gits  no  speech  nor  prayerful  (<  preach  w 

From  mayor  or  governor; 
He  packs  his  little  knapsack  up 

And  trots  off  in  the  van, 
Ter  start  the  fight  and  start  it  right, 

The  Reg'lar  Army  man; 
The  rattlin',  battlin', 
Colt  or  Gatlin', 

Reg'lar  Army  man. 

He  makes  no  fuss  about  the  job, 

He  don't  talk  big  or  brave, 
He  knows  he's  in  ter  fight  and  win, 

Or  help  fill  up  a  grave; 
He  ain't  no  (( mamma's  darlm',"  but 

He  does  the  best  he  can, 
And  he's  the  chap  that  wins  the  scrap, 
The  Reg'lar  Army  man; 
The  dandy,  handy, 
Cool,  and  sandy, 
Reg'lar  Army  man. 

— Joe  Lincoln,  in  L.  A.   W.  Bulletin. 


122  WAR-TIME   ECHOES 


THE    REGULAR    ARMY,   O. 


THE  smoke  of  the  battle  fills  the  air  and  the  dust  is 
flying  high; 

We  give  three  cheers  for  the  volunteers  and  the 
men  about  to  die. 

For  the  heroes  brave  whom  we  know,  we  wave,  as 
they  charge  in  gallant  style, 

And  we  shout  hurrah  for  the  chance  of  war  and 
the  favor  of  Fortune's  smile. 

And  the  glorious  deeds  that  the  reader  reads  are 
the  things  we  all  may  know; 

But  not  so  plain  is  the  might  and  main  of  the  Reg- 
ular Army,  O. 

On  the  nation's  tongue  are  the  words  unsung  of 
this  silent  moving  mass.; 

Yet  the  victories  won  by  heart  and  gun  might  never 
come  to  pass 

If  their  measured  swing  and  their  rifles'  ring  had 
not  been  there  that  day 

To  bear  the  brunt  at  the  battle's  front  in  the  Reg- 
ular Army  way. 

We  give  three  cheers  for  the  volunteers  as  they 
charge  o'er  a  fallen  foe  — 

It  were  better  still  if  our  throats  might  fill  for  the 
Regular  Army,  O. 

In  Time's  great  mint,  when  the  circling  glint  of  the 

glory  coins  are  seen, 
Their  luster  will   strike   on  the   boys  alike,   as  their 

glorious  deeds  have  been. 


PATRIOTIC   POEMS  123 

And  as  sure    as    Fate   metes  out   to   the   great   their 
fullest  measure  of  right, 

There   shall   be    no   song,  but   a   record   long  of   the 
ones  who  trained  to  fight. 

There  shall  be  no  dime  in  the  mint  of  Time  struck 
out  in  the  afterglow, 

But  an  eagle  of  gold  shall  be  unrolled  for  the  Regu- 
lar Army,  O. 

—  Tom  Mas  son,  in  Life. 

*    *   * 


BEFORE    SANTIAGO. 


JULY.  1898. 


WHO   cries   that   the    days    of   daring    are    those   that 

are  faded  far, 
That  never  a  light  burns  planet-bright  to  be  hailed 

as  the  ftero's  star  ? 
Let  the  deeds  of  the  dead  be  laureled,  the  brave  of 

the  elder  years, 
But  a  song,  we  say,  for  the  men  of  to-day  who  have 

proved  themselves  their  peers! 

High   in   the   vault  of   the   tropic   sky   is   the   garish 

eye  of  the  sun, 
And  down  with  its  crown  of  guns  a-frown  looks  the 

hill-top  to  be  won; 
There   is   the   trench   where   the   Spaniard  lurks,  his 

hold  and  his  hiding  place, 
And   he   who   would   cross   the   space    between    must 

meet  death  face  to  face. 


124  WAR-TIME  ECHOES 

The  black  mouths  belch  and  thunder,  and  the  shrap- 
nel shrills  and  flies; 

Where  are  the  fain  and  fearless,  the  lads  with  the 
dauntless  eyes  ? 

Will  the  moment  find  them  wanting  ?  Nay,  but 
with  valor  stirred ! 

Like  the  leashed  hound  on  the  coursing  ground  they 
wait  but  the  warning  word. 

"Charge!"  and  the  line  moves  forward,  moves  with 
a  shout  and  a  swing, 

While  sharper  far  than  the  cactus-thorn  is  the  spite- 
ful bullet's  sting. 

Now  they  are  out  in  the  open,  and  now  they  are 
breasting  the  slope, 

While  into  the  eyes  of  death  they  gaze  as  into  the 
eyes  of  hope. 

Never  they  wait  nor  waiver,  but  on  they  clamber  and  on, 
With   <(  Up   with    the    flag  of   the    stripes   and    stars, 

and  down  with  the  flag  of  the  don ! w 
What  should  they  bear  through  the  shot-rent  air,  but 

rout  to  the  ranks  of  Spain, 
For  the  blood  that  throbs  in  their  hearts  is  the  blood 

of  the  boys  of  Anthony  Wayne! 

See,   they  have  taken   the  trenches!     Where  are  the 

foemen  ?    Gone ! 
And  now  <(  Old  Glory  w  waves  in  the  breeze  from  the 

heights  of  stern  San  Juan! 
And   so,   while   the  dead  are   laureled,   the   brave   of 

the  elder  years, 
A   song,  we   say,  for  the   men   of   to-day,   who   have 

proved  themselves  their  peers! 

—  Clinton  Scollard,  in  Leslie's    Weekly. 


PATRIOTIC   POEMS  125 

WHEELER    AT    SANTIAGO. 


M  General  Wheeler  started  on  the  two  miles'  journey  to  the  front  in  an 
ambulance.  About  half-way  to  the  front  he  met  some  litters  bearing  wounded. 
The  veteran,  against  the  protest  of  the  surgeons,  immediately  ordered  his 
horse,  and  after  personally  assisting  the  wounded  into  the  ambulance,  mounted 
and  rode  onward.  The  men  burst  into  frantic  cheers,  which  followed  the  (Gen- 
eral all  along  the  line." —  Correspondence  of  New  York  Tribune. 


INTO  the  thick  of  the  fight  he  went,  pallid,  and  sick, 

and  wan, 
Borne  in  an  ambulance  to  the  front,  a  ghostly  wisp  of 

a  man; 
But  the  fighting  soul  of  a  fighting  man,  approved  in 

the  long  ago, 
Went  to  the  front  in  that  ambulance,  in  the  body  of 

Fighting  Joe. 

Out  from  the  front  they  were  coming  back,  smitten 
of  Spanish  shells  — 

Wounded  boys  from  the  Vermont  hills  and  the  Ala- 
bama dells; 

((  Put  them  into  this  ambulance;  I'll  ride  to  the  front, w 
he  said; 

And  he  climbed  to  the  saddle,  and  rode  right  on,  that 
little  old  ex-Confed. 

From  end  to  end  of  the  long  blue  ranks  rose  up  the 
ringing  cheers, 

And  many  a  powder-blackened  face  was  furrowed  with 
sudden  tears, 

As  with  flashing  eyes  and  gleaming  sword,  and  hair 
and  beard  of  snow, 

Into  the  hell  of  shot  and  shell  rode  little  old  Fight- 
ing Joe! 


126  WAR-TIME  ECHOES 

Sick  with  fever  and  racked  with  pain,  he  could  not 
stay  away, 

For  he  heard  the  song  of  the  yester-years  in  the  deep- 
mouthed  cannon's  bay  — 

He  heard  in  the  calling  song  of  the  guns  there  was 
work  for  him  to  do, 

Where  his  country's  best  blood  splashed  and  flowed 
'round  the  old  red,  white,  and  blue. 

Fevered  body  and  hero  heart!    This  Union's  heart  to 

you 
Beats  out  in  love  and  reverence  —  and  to  each  dear 

boy  in  blue 
Who  stood  or  fell  'mid  the  shot  and  shell,  and  cheered 

in  the  face  of  the  foe 
As,   wan  and   white,  to  the  heart  of  the  fight,   rode 

little  old  Fighting  Joe! 

—  James  Lindsay  Gordon. 


*   *   * 


RAFFERTY    OF    « F.» 


GAUNT  as  a  wolf  from  the  hunger-ship, 
Three  weeks'  stubble  on  chin  and  lip, 
Grimed  and  stained  with  the  Cuban  mire, 
An  eye  that  gleamed  with  latent  fire, 
Mouth  just  made  for  a  smile  or  joke, 
But  stern  as  steel  when  the  Mausers  spoke 
A  woman's  soft  hand  with  band  and  lint 
When  the  fight  is  done,  but  hard  as  flint 


PATRIOTIC   POEMS  127 

While  a  foe  still  faces  the  fighting  line  — 
Talk  o'  your  Captains!    That  was  mine! 
That's  Rafferty  of  «F.» 

There  were  cheeks  that  paled ;  some  whispered  (<  Stop !  w 
But    he    laughed:    ((We    will  — when    we    get    to   the 

top.)) 

<(  That  spitting  hell  no  mortal  man 
Can  face  one  minute."     (<  By  God,  I  can! 
Fours  —  right!     Deploy!"     And  we  faced  the  hill. 
In  dreams  of  horror  I  see  it  still. 
With  the  bullets  crooning  adown  the  slope, 
A  knell  to  life  and  a  dirge  to  hope; 
But  we  set  our  teeth  to  the  battle  brunt, 
And  the  yelling  demon  out  in  front 
Was  Rafferty  of  (<  F !  » 

Firm-gripped  nettle  forgets  to  sting; 
Rush  to  the  front  when  the  bullets  sing; 
Fierce-fought  fight  is  the  soonest  won; 
Foe  hard  pressed  will  the  quicker  run  — 
That  is  the  simple  tactical  plan 
Of  this  fighting  Irish  gentleman. 
We  stormed  the  hill.     Ah!  but  the  bitter  cost! 
But  ten  to  one  for  our  hurt  and  lost, 
We  paid  the  score  on  the  flying  Don. 
We'd  swarm  through  hell  with  the  lid  spiked  on 
For  Rafferty  of  «F.» 

—       L.  H. 


128  WAR-TIME  ECHOES 


SONG  OF  THE  COLORED  TROOPER. 


BATTLE  OF  JULY  i  IN  FRONT  OF  SANTIAGO. 


O  COME  along,  honey,  feet  off  de  groun', 

An'  take  a  ban'  in  de  game; 
For  hearts   dey  am   trumps,  an'  its  kyards  all 
roun', 

An'  de  bullets  am  callin'  yo'  name. 

De  bullets  am  callin'  yo'  name,  honey! 
De  bullets  am  callin'  yo'  name! 

An'  yer  won't  fall  back 

Cuz  yo'  face  am  black, 
An'  de  bullets  am  callin'  yo'  name! 

O  come  along,  honey,  let  yo'se'f  loose 

Per  Thirteen  per  an'  fer  fame! 
Now  doan'  duck  yo'  head,  fer  it  ain't  no  use 

When  de  bullets  am  callin'  yo'  name. 

De  bullets  am  callin'  yo'  name,  honey! 
De  bullets  am  callin'  yo'  name! 

An'  you'll  show  yo'  han', 

An'  you'll  ac'  like  a  man 
When  de  bullets  am  callin'  yo'  name! 

O  come  along,  honey,  play  out  yo'  han', 

An'  take  de  trick  wif  yo'  aim; 
Show  yaller  an'  white  dat  de  black's  a  man 

When  de  bullets  am  callin'  yo'  name. 

De  bullets  am   callin'  yo'  name,  honey! 
De  bullets  am  callin'  yo'  name ! 


PATRIOTIC    POEMS  129 

An'  it's  no  cake  walk 
When  dem  Mauser  guns  talk, 
De  bullets  am  callin'  yo'  name ! 

O  come  along,  honey,  hell  is  up  dar, 
It's  time  fer  ter  put  out  de  flame; 

Mah  ear,  dere  it  goes!  nebber  touched  mah  ha'r; 
Guess  de  bullets  am  callin'  mah  name! 

De  bullets  am  callin'  mah  name,  honey! 
De  bullets  am  callin'  mah  name! 

Dough  mah  wool's  still  on, 

Dere's  a  nudder  ear  gone  — 
Guess  de  bullets  am  callin'  mah  name! 

O  come  along,  honey,  play  out  yo'  han'; 

Dis  chile  am  out  ob  de  game  — 
De  hottest  ole  fight  since  de  Lawd  made  man  — 

An'  de  bullets  am  callin'  mah  name. 

De  bullets  am  callin'  mah  name,  honey! 

De  bullets  am  callin'  mah  name! 
Honey,  doan'  fall  back, 
Dough  dey've  taken  mah  jack, 

An'  de  bullets  am  callin'  mah  name! 

—  Eward  F.  Burns,  in  Boston  Globe. 

*   *   * 
THE    NEGRO    SOLDIER. 


WE   USED  to   think   the  negro   didn't   count   for   very 

much  — 
Light  fingered  in  the  melon  patch,  and  chicken  yard, 

and  such; 

9 


130  WAR-TIME   ECHOES 

Much  mixed  in  point  of  morals  and  absurd  in   point 

of  dress; 
The   butt   of  droll   cartoonists  and   the   target  of  the 

press; 
But    we've    got    to    reconstruct   our    views    on    color, 

more  or  less, 
Now  we  know  about  the  Tenth  at  La  Quasina! 

When  a  rain  of  shot  was  falling,   with   a  song  upon 

his  lips, 
In  the  horror  where  such  gallant  lives  went  out  in 

death's  eclipse, 
Face   to    face    with    Spanish  bullets,  on   the    slope  of 

San  Juan, 
The   negro    soldier   showed   himself   another   type  of 

man; 
Read  the  story  of  his  courage,  coldly,  carelessly,  who 

can  — 
The  story  of  the  Tenth  at  La  Quasina! 

We  have  heaped  the  Cuban  soil  above  their  bodies, 

black  and  white  — 
The    strangely   sorted    comrades    of   that    grand    and 

glorious  fight  — 
And  many  a   fair-skinned  volunteer  goes  whole  and 

sound  to-day 
For  the  succor  of  the  colored  troops,  the  battle  records 

say; 
And  the   feud  is  done  forever,  of  the  blue  coat  and 

the  gray  — 
All  honor  to  the  Tenth  at  La  Quasina! 

—  B.  M.  Ckanning,  in  Boston  Journal. 


PATRIOTIC   POEMS  •       131 

WITH    TEDDY. 


ONLY  boy  we  ever  had, 

Him  that  went  with  Teddy, 

Tough  and  husky  sort  o'  lad, 
Rough  and  always  ready. 

Somewhat  wildish  in  his  way, 

Ruther  swear,  I  guess,  than  pray, 

But  as  honest  as  the  day, 
Always  true  and   steady. 

Didn't  like  to  see  him  go, 

Me  an'  his  ol'  mother. 
Both  our  hearts  a  packin'  woe 

We  could  scarcely  smother. 
Loved  our  boy  almighty  dear, 
An'  it  knocked  us  out  o'  gear, 
When  he  went  an'  left  us  here 

'Lone  with  one  another. 

Used  to  set  here  every  night, 

Me  an'  my  ol'  woman, 
Talkin'  'bout  the  way  he'd  fight 

When  he  met  the  foeman. 
Knowed  he'd  never  flinch  a  bit, 
Knowed  he  wasn't  built  to  quit, 
Knowed  for  sure  he'd  never  git 

Back  an  inch  fur  no  man. 

When  the  Denver  people  come 

To  the  rench  a  tellin' 
'Bout  the  fight,  I  made^things  hum 

Dancin'  an'  a  yellin'i 


132  WAR-TIME   ECHOES 

Whooped  for  Teddy  an'  the  rest 
With  the  wildest  sort  o'  zest, 
While  the  heart  within  me  breast 
Was  with  pride  a  swellin'! 

Keep  a  readin'  on  an'  on, 

Whooped  till  mother  hinted 

That  I  acted  like  I'd  gone 
Actually  demented! 

Then  a  cloud  came  o'er  my  eyes, 

An'  I  groaned  in  pained  surprise 
On  one  name  they'd  printed. 


Nothin'  that  the  neighbors  said, 

Could  our  sorrow  lighten. 
Every  time  they'd  mention  Ned 

Seemed  the  cinch  'd  tighten ! 
Only  gleam  o'  sun  that  shot 
Through  our  souls  with  mis'ry  fraught 
Was  the  one  consolin'  thought, 

That  he  died  a  fightin'. 

—  Anon. 

*    *    * 


SANTIAGO'S    DEAD. 


THERE   are  strains   of   martial   music,  and   the   sound 

of  muffled  drum, 
Every  moment  growing  louder,  as  the  soldiers  nearer 

come, 


PATRIOTIC    POEMS  133 

They   are   marching,    slowly    marching,    to   the   camp 

ground  of  the  dead, 
With  arms  reversed,  and  solemn  mien,  and  measured 

heavy  tread. 

Marching  on,  marching  on,  marching  on,  on,  on, 
While  the  muffled  drum  is  tapping,  they  are  slowly 
marching  on. 

They  are  marching  with  their  heroes,  who  with  their 

lives  have  sealed 

Their  loyalty  to  (<  Glory w  on  a  crimson  battle-field, 
And   that   starry   battle-banner,  is   now   draped   upon 

their  biers, 
As  they're  borne  to  that  bivouac,  so  often  wet  with 

tears. 

Marching  on,  marching  on,  marching  on,  on,  on, 
While  the  muffled  drum  is  tapping,  they  are  slowly 
marching  on. 

The    bugle-call    has    sounded,    for    the    soldier's    last 

tattoo, 
They  are  going  to  their  quarters,  those  heroes  of  the 

blue- 

Their  comrades  fire  volleys  over  every  hero's  grave, 
A    soldier's    fitting    tribute,    for    (<  the   bravest   of  the 

brave. w 

Marching  on,  marching  on,  marching  on,  on,  on, 
For  their  names  in  Glory's  annals  will  be  proudly 
marching  on. 

—  E.  S.  Roberts. 


134  WAR-TIME    ECHOES 

THE    SOLDIER'S    BURIAL, 


The  regiment  stood  in  close  ranks  about  the  grave  as  the  muffled  figures 
were  lowered  gently,  the  chaplain  calling  out  the  names  of  each.  He  called 
the  names  of  mule  packer,  salesman,  cowboy,  and  last  of  all,  Hamilton 
Fish,  Jr.,  the  young  sergeant  who  was  carried  to  the  front  to  die,  and  whose 
watch  bore  the  crests  of  Alexander  Hamilton  and  Nicholas  Fish,  and  the 
motto  <*  God  will  give.*" —  Richard  Harding  Davis,  in  the  New  York  Herald. 


BURY  them,  bury  them  side  by  side, 

With  the  tropic  grasses  bending  over, 

Where  the  royal  palm,  all  undenied, 
Shall  be  their  constant  lover! 

There,  on  the  hillsides  over  the  bay, 
Over  the  beautiful  Cuban  valley, 

Tenderly,  tenderly  lay  them  away  — 

Where  they  won  their  last  fierce  rally! 

Oh,  the  desperate  charge  they  made  — 

The  flag  of  the  Stars  and  Stripes  before 
them, 

And  never  a  heart  of  these  hearts  afraid 
To  strike  for  the  land  that  bore  them. 

Peace !  —  the  Chaplain  is  calling  their  names, 
Peace  to  the  ashes  to  dust  returning; 

But  earth  cannot  cover  the  light  of  their  fames, 
Or  darken  the  glow  of  its  burning! 

Cowboy,  clerk,  and  packer  are  here  — 

Fortune's  favorite,  dauntless  and  true  — 

One  in  their  scorn  of  a  coward  fear, 
Onq  in  their  love  for  the  Blue ! 


PATRIOTIC   POEMS  135 

Northland,  Southland,  East  and  West  — 
Northland,  Southland  —  never  again! 

West  and  East  in  a  love  confessed 
Over  these  voiceless  men ! 

Chaplain,  call  us  again  the  rolls! 

For  earth  hath  never  a  melody 
As  sweet  as  the  names  of  the  hero  souls 

That  strive  to  make  men  free! 

Leave  not  one  from  the  shining  list  — 
Each  is  something  transfigured  now; 

Over  our  eyes  sweeps  a  holy  mist, 
A  shadow  is  on  each  brow! 

But  (<  God  will  give  >}  in  the  days  to  come ; 

God  will  give  as  ever  He  gives; 
After  the  roar  of  musket  and  drum 

He  knows,  He  cares,  He  lives! 

And  these  our  mother  is  taking  to  sleep 
In  her  deepest  breast,  by  the  Cuban  bay 

Shall  ever  be  under  the  Father's  keep  — 
And  shall  not  pass  away! 

-  John   Jerome  Rooney,  in  N.   Y.  Times. 

*   *   * 


OUR    NEW    HEROES, 


THEY'VE  half-inch  thick  of  tan  upon  their  faces, 
And  some  of  them  have  freckles  on  their  toes, 

They've  scars  and  bandages  in  sundry  places 
As  proof  of  the  attentions  of  their  foes. 


136  WAR-TIME   ECHOES 

There  are  some  who  really  ought  to  see  the  barber  — 
Their  tailors  surely  never  earned  their  pay  — 

But  we'd  know  them  anywhere  as  our  new  heroes  — 
The  men  the  nation  honors — Hip,  hooray! 

CHORUS  — 

They're  coming  home  together 

To  meet  us  all  again, 
The  men  the  nation  honors, 

The  men  who  conquered  Spain; 
And  when  they  march  down  Broadway, 

We'll  tear  the  sky  with  cheers  — 
For  army  and  for  navy, 

And  gallant  volunteers. 

There  is  Dewey,  whom  Augusti  swore  to  murder, 

To  hang  upon  the  trees  with  all  his  men; 
But  Dewey  didn't  understand  the  programme  — 

And  so  he  smashed  Montejo  in  his  den. 
There  is  Hobson,  earned  the  foeman's  admiration, 

He  bottled  poor  Cervera  up  so  tight 
That  when  the  Spaniard  fled  in  desperation 

He  had  to  make  his  dash  in  broad  daylight. 

There's  the  man  who  caught  the  Spanish  ships  escaping- 

And  sent  them  all  to  Davy  Jones's  domain; 
He  kept  the  word  he  gave  when  first  he  saw  them  — 

(<  Not  one,}>  he  said,  ((  would  e'er  get  back  to  Spain. w 
There's  Shafter  and  his  men  from  Santiago, 

They  drew  the  lines  so  close  about  the  town 
That  all  the  brave  defenders  there  surrendered 

And  twenty  thousand  stands  of  arms  laid  down. 

—  Sydney  Reid,  in  New   York  Sun. 


PATRIOTIC   POEMS  137 


MIGHTY    FINE. 


JEFF  lived  jes'  off  th'  ol'  plank  road, 

On  a  farm  thet  wus  two  b'  four, 
He  didn't  hev  much  t'  say  t'  folks 

Becuz  he  was  humble  an*  pore; 
But  whenever  anythin'  pleased  his  eye 

His  withered  ol'  face  'd  shine, 
An'  we'd  hear  him  say  in  his  quiet  way: 

<(  Say,  boys,  thet  wus  mighty  fine !  w 

Once  a  Senator  came  t'  th'  County  Fair, 

An'  he  talked  t'  th'  G.  A.  R., 
How  they  fought  in  th'  war  o'  Sixty-one, 

Th'  Army  man  an'  th'  tar; 
An'  when  he'd  cracked  up  Lincoln  some 

Es  a  man  almos'  divine, 
We  heard  Jeff  say  in  his  quiet  way: 

<(  Say,  boys,  thet  wus  mighty  fine ! w 

An'  when  las'  spring  th'  President  said 

He'd  do  up  ol'  haughty  Spain 
Per  doin'  a  villainous,  treacherous  deed 

Like  th'  blowin'  up  o'  th'  (<  Maine/* 
Ol'  Jeff  he  threw  his  paper  aside, 

In  a  pleased  way,  I  opine; 
An'  we  heard  him  say  in  his  quiet  way: 

w  Say,  boys,  thet  wus  mighty  fine ! w 

An'  when  th'  President  called  fer  men 
An'  a  million  answered  th'  call, 


138  WAR-TIME   ECHOES 

An'  th'  warn't  'nough  guns  t'  go  eround, 

Ol'  Jeff  growd  suddenly  tall. 
<(  I'm  proud  o'  my  country,  boys,"  said  he, 

Es  he  chawed  at  th'  end  of  a  twine; 
An'  we  heard  him  add  in  accents  glad: 

(<  Say,  boys,  thet  wus  mighty  fine ! }> 

Ol'  Jeff  hed  a  boy  o'  twenty-three, 

An'  a  strappin*  good  feller,  too, 
An'  when  he  heard  th'  wus  goin'  t'  be  war 

He  put  on  a  suit  o'  blue; 
An'  when  he  started  off  t'  th'  train 

Ol'  Jeff  never  made  a  sign, 
But  he  turned  t'  th'  crowd  an'  said  aloud: 

(<  Say,  boys,  thet  wus  mighty  fine !  w 

An'  when  he  read  o'  th'  Manila  fight, 

How  Dewey  hed  smashed  a  fleet, 
An'  all  the  village  went  rippin'  mad 

An'  hollerin'  in  th'  street, 
Ol'  Jeff  come  down  through  his  garden  plot 

An'  he  leant  on  th'  harbor  vine; 
An'  we  heard  him  say  in  his  quiet  way: 

(<  Say,  boys,  thet  wus  mighty  fine !  w 

He  never  hollered  ner  shouted  eround, 

That  sort,  y'  see,  wa'nt  ol'  Jeff's  way, 
But  he  felt,  you  bet,  in  his  good  ol'  heart, 

Thet  th'  navy  was  come  t'  stay! 
Thar  wus  po'try,  too,  in  them  gentle  words, 

A  po'try  we  couldn't  define, 
When  he'd  turn  an'  say,  in  his  quiet  way: 

<(  Say,  boys,  thet  wus  mighty  fine ! w 


PATRIOTIC   POEMS  139 

He'd  borrer  th'  papers  o'  neighbors  near 

An'  he'd  read  'em  all  through  at  night, 
An'  then  drop  in  at  th'  grocery  store 

An'  tell  what  he  thought  o'  th'  fight. 
When  Hobson  went  int'  th'  mouth  o'  hell 

An'  laughed  at  th'  Spanish  mine, 
We  heard  Jeff  say  in  his  quiet  way: 

(<  Say,  boys,  thet  wus  mighty  fine ! * 

An'  when  th'  report  came  over  th'  wire 

How  they'd  stormed  San  Joo'n  hill, 
An'  many  a  man  wus  dead  an'  gone 

An'  many  a  heart  wus  still, 
Ol'  Jeff,   though  he  knowd  thet  his  boy 

Wus  one  thet  made  th'  incline, 
He  wus  heard  t'  say  in  his  quiet  way: 

<(  Say,  boys,  thet  wus  mighty  fine !  w 

An'  when  they  brought  th'  pore  lad  back 

In  a  narrer  box  o'  pine, 
An'  th'  village  band  played  th'  grim  dead  march, 

An'  th'  hull  town  got  in  line, 
An'  th'  minister  said  how  brave  he  wus, 

An'  every  eye  filled  with  brine, 
We  heard  Jeff  say  in  a  chokin'  way: 

((  Say,  boys,  thet  wus  mighty  fine !  w 

—  Harold  MacGrath,  in  Syracuse  Herald. 


140  WAR-TIME  ECHOES 

AWK'ARD    NED. 


JEST  a  great  big  rural  jay, 

Greener  than  a  cussed  mango, 
Come  an'  j'ined  our  troop  one  day 

From  a  ranch  down  near  Durango. 
Awk'ard  as  a  shepherd  pup, 

Hair  a  sort  o'  sunbur't  yaller, 
An'  we  straightway  put  him  up 

As  a  durn  half-witted  feller 
Lackin'  sense  enough  to  eat 
'Less'n  someone  'd  cut  his  meat. 

Got  to  be  the  laughin'  stock 

O'  the  troop.     Lord!  how  we  guyed  him 
Every  move  o'  his  we'd  mock 

But  our  actions  never  tried  him. 
Used  to  sometimes  softly  say 

In  a  answer  to  our  chaffin', 
In  a  easy  country  way: 

<(Nothin'  healthier  than  laughin'; 
Fun  fur  you,  I  guess,  an'  it 
Isn't  hurtin'  me  a  bit." 

When  we  sailed  fur  Cuby  we 

Used  to  say  we'd  see  him  vanish 
Full  o'  sharp  alacrity 

Furst  time  that  we  struck  the  Spanish; 
Used  to  fetch  a  laugh,  an*  say, 

When  the  rifles  got  a  poppin' 
He  would  make  a  rearward  play, 

Like  a  oV  Jack-rabbit  hoppin'; 


PATRIOTIC    POEMS  141 

Then  he'd  answer  sort  o'  slow: 
((  Mebbe  yes,  an'  mebbe  no. >J 

I  have  read  an'  I've  bin  tol' 

That  there  often  comes  a  'casion 
When  it's  soothin'  to  the  soul 

Fur  to  make  a  straight  confession, 
An'  I'm  willin'  to  admit 

In  the  hull  cowboy  battalion 
Wasn't  one  of  us  that  fit 

Harder  than  that  same  rapscallion. 
Even  Colonel  Teddy  said 
He  was  proud  o'  awk'ard  Ned. 

An'  as  we  was  standin'  'round 

While  the  chaplain  was  a  talkin', 
Every  eye  spiked  to  the  ground, 

Every  neck  plum  full  o'  chokin', 
Him  a  layin'  there  in  death 

With  a  fight-look  on  his  features, 
Want  to  tell  you,  pard,  the  breath 

Come  durned  hard  to  us  vile  creatures, 
Eyes  a  snappin'  shut  like  shears, 
Bitin'  off  the  risin'  tears! 

—  The  Denver  Poet. 


142  WAR-TIME   ECHOES 


THE    STALKING    OF    THE    SEA    WOLVES. 


THEY  had  come  from  out  of  the  east 

To  ravage  and  burn  and  kill, 
And  they  stopped  for  a  moment  to  rest  and  wait 

In  a  landlocked  harbor  still. 
But  a  grim  sea  dog  there  was 

Who  had  stalked  them  through  spray  and 

foam, 

And  he  came  and  he  looked,  and  he  smiled  and 
said: 

<(  They'll  never  get  home !  M 

Then  another  old  sea  dog  came, 

And   they  sat  them  down  to  wait, 
Untiring,  stern,  through  long,  dry  days, 

At  the  harbor's  frowning  gate. 
Under  the  hot,  fierce  sun, 

Under  the  still,  blue  dome, 
The  sea  dogs  waited,  and  watched,  and  growled 

«  They'll  never  get  home !  » 

And  the  wolves  came  forth  at  last, 

And  the  grim  sea  dogs  closed  in, 
And   the   battle   was  won,   and   the  Old   Flag 

waved 

Where  the  banner  of  Spain  had  been. 
The  colors  of  blood  and  gold 

Sank  deep  in  the  churning  foam, 
And   the  sea  dogs  growled :    <(  We  have   kept 

our  word; 
They'll  never  get  horned 

—  Chas.    IV.  Thompson,  in  N.   Y.  Sun. 


PATRIOTIC   POEMS  143 

HOBSON    AND    HIS    MEN. 

'Tis  well  to  grant  fair  meed  of  praise 

To  daring  deeds  of  bygone  days, 

Nor  slight  the  worth  of  Homer's  sires 

Or  Froissart's  doughty  knights  and  squires; 

But  to  the  dead  heroic  scroll 

'Tis  good  to  add  the  living  roll. 

Let  honor's  beaming  sun  arise, 

The  age  of  heroes  never  dies! 

Aye !    Let  it  shine  and  blazon  forth 

A  deathless  deed  of  matchless  worth. 

In  full-orbed  glory  set  the  eight 

Who  dauntless  dared  a  grewsome  fate. 

Would  that  old  Froissart's  prose  were  mine, 

Or  better,  Homer's  strain  divine, 

To  hold  forever  up  to  view 

The  fame  of  Hobson  and  his  crew! 

Within  the  frowning  batteries'  range, 
As  to  parade,  sight  passing  strange, 
They  steadfast  steered  unmindful  on, 
Albeit  ev'ry  Spanish  gun 
Barked  death  —  unmoved  still,  although 
They  knew  torpedoes  lay  below; 
And  on  her  greatest  trip  and  last 
The  <(  Merrimac  })  unscathed  passed.' 

The  channel,  leading  .to  the  bay, 
Had  such  a  narrow,  tortuous  way, 
A  vessel  scraped  the  rocky  ledge, 
And  toiling  slow  would  onward  wedge. 


144  WAR-TIME    ECHOES 

The  goal  of  which  they  went  in  quest 
Was  at  that  channel's  narrowest; 
They  reached  and  stopped  their  laden  boat, 
Then  sunk  her  down  the  harbor's  throat. 

The  namesake  of  the  rebel  ram 
Serves  well  her  country  for  a  dam, 
And  holds  a  hostile  fleet  in  pound. 
If  their' s  would  pass,  it  runs  aground. 
To  starve  or  yield  alternatives 
The  sunken  vessel  grimly  gives; 
To  yield  or  starve  and  Spanish  pride 
On  this  dilemma  must  decide. 

Where  Morro's  keep  confronts  the  wave, 
Lie  those  enchained,  whom,  being  brave, 
Despoiler  death  refused  to  slay. 
vSoon  should  a  grateful  country  pay 
A  kingly  ransom,  exchange  ten 
Or  hundred-fold  for  Hobson's  men. 
Too  narrow,  Morrow's  dungeon  bars 
For  heroes  of  the  Stripes  and  Stars. 

—  Thomas  E.  Smiley,  in  Indianapolis  News. 

*    *    * 

HOBSON. 

AS     TOLD     BY     MIKEY     O*TOOLE. 


Siz  Hobson,  of  Allybama,  I  brought  yez 

A  load  of  coal. 
Siz  Servery,  it's  just  the  very  thing 

I  wahnt,  bless  yer  soul. 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS  145 

Siz  Hobson,  I'll  put  er  down  in  the 

Bazemint  for  yez  to  get. 
Siz  Servery,  hould  on,  if  ye  do  it'll 

All  git  mity  wet. 

Divil  cares,  siz  Hobson,  is  this  the 

Bay  of  Santiago  ? 
Never  yez  mind  about  the  bay. 

Dom  the  bay,  siz  the  Dago. 

That's  phwat  I'm  tryin*  to  do,  siz  Hobson, 

Both  inds  on  the  ground. 
Siz  Servery,  lave  room,  plaze,  for 

A  wheelbarry  to  go  round. 

'Dthin  he  siz,  doo  yez  see  me  min  a 

Shootin'  away  at  marks  ? 
I  doo,  begorra,  siz  Hobson,  they're 

Skarrin'  ahf  all  the  sharks. 

Pay  for  the  coal,  siz  Hobson,  I've 

Put  er  all  down  in  the  bin. 
Divil  a  cint  I  have,  said  Servery, 

For  you  and  the  min. 

'Dthin  we'll  boord  with  yez,  si&  Hobson, 

Until  ivery  cint  we  git. 
And  he  did,  an'  he's  boording  it  out 

With  the  Dago  til  yit. 

—  Ironquill. 


146  WAR-TIME  ECHOES 

* 

THE    HOBSON-ARNOLD    KISS. 


These  verses  were  published  the  morning 
after  the  memorable  kiss  at  Bath  Beach. 


OH,  THE  glamour 

And  the  clamor 
Of  the  Hobson- Arnold  kiss! 

Lovely  Emma! 

Sweet  dilemma, 
Which  the  hero  couldn't  miss! 

At  the  seaside, 

On  the  leeside 
Of  a  summer  hostelry, 

Came  the  issue, 

<(  May  I  kiss  you  ?  w 
Chirped  the  maid  to  Richmond  P 

Eyes  appealing 

Set  him  reeling — 
Luckiest  he  of  living  men! 

Cuss  the  Dago! 

Santiago 
Had  no  charm  for  Richmond  then. 

For  it  true  is 

That  St.  Louis 
Girls  are  neater,  sweeter  far 

Than  all  others, 

(Like  their  mothers) 
Makes  no  difference  who  they  are. 


PATRIOTIC   POEMS  147 

So  the  maiden, 

Beauty-laden, 
Glued  a  kiss  upon  the  lips 

That  were  cheerful 

'Neath  the  fearful 
Rain  of  lead  from  Spanish  ships. 

Hobson,  go!   You 

Have  all  we  owe  you. 
What  are  shells  that  madly  whirl 

To  the  blisses 

Of  the  kisses 
Of  a  sweet  Missouri  girl  ? 

—  S/.  Louis  Post  Dispatch. 

*   *   * 
HIS    BLOOD. 


Colonel  Roosevelt  is  by  descent  French,  Scotch,  Dutch, 
and  Irish. —  Current  Newspaper  Information. 


ZEES  Tayodore,  ze  (<  Ridaire  Rude, }) 

Who  led  ze  charge  at  Caney, 
Possess  a  coorazh  verra  good, 

Mon  Dieu!    He's  von  of  many! 
Ze  papaires  talk  ze  man  upon 

And  praise  hees  hero-eesm; 
Zey  like  zees  new  Napoleon, 

Nor  ees  eet  strange  he  please  zem. 
Pourquoi  ?     He  ees  a  Frenchman ! 

I  ken  a  mon  sae  fu'  o'  fire 
An'  weel  renoon  deservin' 


148  WAR-TIME   ECHOES 

As  he  that  fought  mid  reek  an'  mire, 
Wi'  nae  retreat,  nae  swervin', 

When  Spanish  shell  an'  Spanish  gun 
Besmeared  the  groun'  sae  redlie; 

But  his  was  nae  the  race  to  shun 
Tho'  sword  an'  shot  be  deadlie, 
For,  trulie,  he's  ae  Scotchman! 


It  vas  not  gueer  dis  Roosevelt 

Vas  sooch  a  prave  gommander; 
I  dells  you  I  mineself  haf  felt 

As  pold  as  Alexander; 
It  vas  der  ploot,  mine  frients,  der  ploot, 

Dot  mages  der  vearless  soldtier; 
An'  dere  vas  none  von  ha'f  so  goot  — 

Remember  vot  I  toldt  you  — 

As  his,  vor  he's  von  Dutchman! 


Av  coorse  our  Teddy's  bould  and  brave, 

How  ilse  could  he  be  other  ? 
No  foiner  lad,  Oi  well  belave, 

E'er  woman  had  for  mother. 
Av  coorse  he  drubbed  thim  Spanyards  haard 

Down  there  at  Santiago; 
He's  not  the  spalpeen  to  be  scared 

At  any  div'lish  Dago, 

Because,  begob,  he's  Oirish! 


Vraiment!    Zees  Tayodore  ees  grand! 

Parceque  he  ees  a  Frenchman; 
But  dinna  reck  ae  Scot  is  bond 

To  serve  as  any's  henchman; 


PATRIOTIC   POEMS  149 

Dere  vas  no  nation  on  der  earth 

So  bold  as  vas  der  Deutscher; 
An'  ivery  mon  av  anny  worth 

Is  Oirish  in  the  future, 

As  Teddy  is  this  prisent! 

—  W.  D.  Fox,  in  New   York  Sun. 


HYMN  OF  THE  SANTIAGO  SPANIARD. 


WE'RE  going  home,  we're  going  home, 

We're  going  home  manana, 
And  that  is  where  we've  got  the  bulge 

On  the  dagoes  in  Havana. 

We're  going  home,  we're  going  home 

To  tell  the  folks  the  story 
Of  how  we  scoffed  at  and  defied 

And  bowed  before  Old  Glory. 

We're  going  home,  no  more  to  roam 
Through  lands  the  Yanks  are  after, 

And  you  can  bet  we'll  shun  the  beat 
Patrolled  by  big  Bill  Shafter. 

Viva  Toral!    We're  going  home, 

To  give  up  war  and  folly  — 
We're  going  home,  and  glad  to  get 

The  chance  to  go,  by  golly! 

—  Cleveland  Leader. 


150  WAR-TIME  ECHOES 

THE    "VESUVIUS." 

THERE   is   going    to    be    some    crumbling   and    some 

shaking  down  of  walls, 

There  will  be  some  lively  dodging  to  and  fro; 
There  is  going  to  be  an  earthquake  every  time  the 

captain  calls 
Upon  the  sturdy  fellows  at   the  gun   to  (<let  her 

go!» 
Oh,    the    swarthy,    sweating    Spaniard    will    imagine 

Satan's  there, 
And  that  the  fag  end  of  the  world  has  just  come 

into  sight, 
And  something   more  than  rumor   will   be  flying  in 

the  air 
When  the  little  old  (<  Vesuvius  w  begins  to  dynamite. 

There    will   be   some    lively    spectacles   worth    going 

miles  to  see  — 

Some  gorgeous  pyrotechnical  displays; 
There  will  be  some  soaring  castles  and  the  patient 

mules  will  be 
Strewn   o'er  the   Cuban  landscape  in   a   thousand 

varied  ways. 
Oh,    the    swarthy,    sweating    Spaniard    will    imagine 

Satan's  there, 
And  that  the  fag  end  of  the  world  has  just  come 

into  sight, 
And   something  more   than  rumor  will   be   flying  in 

the  air 
When  the  little  old  (<  Vesuvius  w  begins  to  dynamite. 

—  Cleveland  Leader. 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS  1:5.1- 

SURVIVAL    OF    THE    FITTEST. 


THE  new  <(  protected  cruiser  }>  cruised  upon  the  ocean 

wide, 
Till    a    man-of-war    espied    her    and    punched    holes 

into  her  side. 

And  the  man-of-war  continued  for  a  little  while  to 

float, 
Till  driven  to  the  bottom  by  a  new  torpedo  boat. 

Then  while  the  foe  triumphant  rubbed  his  hands  and 

softly  laughed, 
Torpedo   boat    destroyers   came    and   sunk   the   other 

craft. 

And    as    the    victor  dashed    about,    through    battle's 

smoke  and  murk, 
Destroyers  of  torpedo  boat  destroyers  did  their  work. 

Whereat   into   the   action   something   new   in   vessels 

came  — 
'( Destroyers    of    destroyers    of    destroyers }>    was    its 

name. 

Which  brings  the  matter  down  to  date,  where  it  will 

rest,  no  doubt, 
Until  some  ten  times  wrecker  of  destroyers  ventures 

out. 

—  Anon. 


152  WAR-TIME   ECHOES 

THE    MOSQUITO    FLEET. 


You  can  talk  about  your  squadrons 

With  their  mighty  battleships 
And  their  rapid-sailing  cruisers 

That  go  off  on  scouting  trips, 
You  may  say  that  they  in  battle 

Are  extremely  hard  to  beat; 
They're  not  in  it  for  a  minute 

With  the  new  «  Mosquito  »  fleet ! 

For  last  night,  straight  for  the  harbor 
Of  my  sleeping  room  they  made, 

And  most  fearlessly  and  daring 

Ran  right  through  my  screen  blockade, 

Then,  with  merciless  projectiles 
That  project  a  dozen  feet, 

They  bombarded  my  poor  forehead, 
Did  this  big  «  Mosquito  »  fleet ! 

With  my  swinging  right-hand  battery 

I  replied  with  several  shots, 
But  in  vain;  for  they  kept  cruising 

At  the  speed  of  twenty  knots. 
So  I  sunk  myself,  exclaiming, 

As  to  death  I  went  so  sweet: 
«I  was  in  it  — JUST  a  minute, 

With  the  new  (  Mosquito }  fleet !  » 

—  James  Courtney  Challiss. 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS  153 

« 

THE  EAGLE  AND  THE  VULTURE 


SAID  the  vulture  to  the  eagle: 

<(  I'm  a  looking  straight  at  you.* 
Said  the  eagle  to  the  vulture: 

« Whoop-la!  Yankee  Doodle-do  !w 
Then  the  eagle  and  the  vulture 

Came  together  in  the  air, 
And  there  ain't  a  sign  of  vulture 

To  be  noticed  anywhere, 
Save  a  heap  of  bloody  feathers. 

But  the  eagle  proudly  flew 
O'er  the  heights  of  Santiago 

Screaming,  (<  Yankee  Doodle-do !  * 

Said  Cervera  in  the  morning: 

<(  I'm  a  going  to  rush  through. }) 
Then  said  Schley  to  rash  Cervera: 

(<  I  won't  do  a  thing  to  you." 
Then  the  two  fleets  came  together 

And  they  had  a  pretty  fight, 
And  it  ended  in  Cervera 

Being  in  the  vulture's  plight. 
Then  the  bands  began  a  tooting, 

And  the  brave  blue-coated  crew 
Joined  in  screaming  like  the  eagle: 

«'Rah  for  Yankee  Doodle-do!0 

Said  Linares  to  "Bill"  Shafter: 
<(  You  can't  catch  me  in  a  year. " 

Said  (<  Bill »  Shafter  to  Linares : 
<(  I  will  get  you,  never  fear." 


154  WAR-TIME  ECHOES 

Then  «  Bill »  Shafter  gave  Linares 

Sev'ral  awful  hearty  whacks, 
And  Linares  found  he'd  got  it 

Where  the  chicken  got  the  ax. 
Thereupon  «  Bill  »  Shafter's  fighters, 

Clad  in  Uncle  Sammy's  blue, 
Sang  upon  that  July  morning, 

«  'Rah  for  Yankee  Doodle-do ! » 

—  Omaha    World-Herald. 

*  *  * 
A  BALLADE  OF  BLUE  JACKETS. 


THE  Don  had  his  will  with  the  (t  Maine, M 
He  set  off  his  mine  with  a  roar, 

He  quaffed  to  our  dead  his  champagne, 

And  laughed  till  his  sides  they  were  sore: 
And  now  he  must  settle  his  score, 

And  pay  for  his  sport,  as  is  right, 
Our  navy  is  brave,  as  of  yore, 

And  Yankee  blue-jackets  can  fight. 

Perhaps  we  are  not  in  the  vein  — 

We  pigs,  as  he's  called  us  before  — 
To  laugh  at  our  sailor-boys  slain, 

And  so  his  brave  joke  we  deplore. 

And  flashing  a  bolt  from  the  shore 
And  sinking  a  ship  in  the  night 

Was  murder,  our  blue-jackets  swore  — 
And  Yankee  blue-jackets  can  fight. 

Our  guns  at  Manila  spoke  plain, 

And  sharp  was  the  message  they  bore, 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS  155 

As  swift  through  the  squadron  of  Spain 
Our  death-dealing  hurricane  tore; 
As,  riddled  and  rent  to  the  core, 

Each  cruiser  plunged  down  out  of  sight, 
(<  One  more  for  our  sailors !   one  more !  w 

And  Yankee  blue-jackets  can  fight. 

ENVOY. 

Alfonso,  just  add  to  your  store 
Of  learning,  this  sentiment  trite, 

Remember  the  war  isn't  o'er, 

And  Yankee  blue-jackets  can  fight. 

—  Joe  Lincoln,  in  L.  A.   IV.  Bulletin. 


*   *   * 


THE    GNARLY    SAILOR    MAN. 


IT  WAS  a  gnarly  sailor  man 
Tattooed  across  the  breast, 

Who  waddled  toward  a  coil  of  rope 
And  sat  thereon  to  rest. 

The  beard  he  wore  was  grizzly  gray, 
His  face  was  crimson  red, 

He  spat  profusely  at  the  tide 

And  scratched  his  ear  and  said: 

(<  Time  was  when  I  was  just  a  kid, 

First  follerin'  the  sea, 
An'  yarns  like  these  was  told  within 

The  fo'c'sle  to  me. 


156  WAR-TIME   ECHOES 

<(  They  told  me  of  the  spooky  ship 
Manned  by  a  crew  of  ghosts 

That  rassled  with  the  waves  about 
The  Pattygony  coasts. 

<(  Likewise  an'  similar  I  heerd 
Of  speerit  craft  that  would 

Come  bearin'  down  upon  you  in 
Midocean  neighborhood ; 

<(  Come  bearin'  down  upon  you  till 
There  wan't  two  foot  to  spare  — 

Then  disappeared  in  half  a  wink 
An'  left  you  shakin'  there. 

u  Ay,  man  an'  boy,  fer  forty  year 
I've  heerd  them  tales  of  old; 

I've  set  amongst  my  mates  an'  stared 
At  dreadful  yarns  they  told. 

<(  But  stranger  than  the  lot  of  them 
Rolled  up  in  one  an'  tied, 

Is  these  here  statements  that  we  hear 
Right  now  on  ev'ry  side. 

"Ten  hundred  times  as  odd  as  is 
That  Flyin'  Dutchman  case 

Is  this  about  the  Spanish  fleet 
Which  we're  a-givin'  chase. 

<(  They  seen  it  up  by  Eastport,  Maine, 
One  pleasant,  quiet  morn, 

An'  next  day  some  one  sighted  it 
A-roundin'  of  Cape  Horn. 


PATRIOTIC    POEMS  157 

(<  An'  in  between,  a  merchantman 
Comes  in  an*  swears  he  viewed 

Them  ships  in  longitude   16 
An'  80  latitude. 

ft  But  just  as  we  have  hunted  it 

An'  when  the  place  is  found 
A  cable  comes  from  Labrador: 

(  Spain's  boats  is  here,  aground.* 

"Which  makes  us  happy  fer  an  hour, 

An'  then  from  Martinique 
We  hear:    (That  Spanish  squadron's  here, 

An'  has  been  fer  a  week.* 

(( One  ocean  captain  says  he  seen 

Them  vessels  out  at  sea 
Headed  fer  Spain  an*  also  fer 

The  coast  of  Carribbee. 

<(  Yet,  speakin'  of  the  self-same  hour, 

Another  says  their  smoke 
Caught  his  attention  as  he  was 

Ten  mile  off  Cape  Saint  Roque. 

(<They  fly  by  night,  they  fly  by  day; 

A  million  knots  or  so 
In  half  a  minute  is  the  speed 

At  which  them  Spaniards  go. 

(<  From  Delagoa  bay  around 

Up  to  the  Benin  bight 
Is  just  a  little,  easy  jaunt, 

That  takes  up  half  a  night. 


158  WAR-TIME   ECHOES 

w  An'  judgin'  by  the  last  reports 
About  their  movements  I'm 

A  liar  if  them  ships  ain't  been 
Six  places  at  one  time. 

<(  It  beats  the  Flyin'  Dutchman  cold, 
It  beats  all  ghosts  an'  such, 

The  way  them  Spanish  warboats  chase 
Around  the  world  so  much. 

u  Them  stories  that  I  used  to  hear 

In  old  times,  as  I  says, 
Ain't  nothin'  to  what's  printed  in 

The  papers  nowadays. 

w  As  I  was  sayin' — })  Down  the  pier 
A  boy,  with  all  his  might, 

Came  crying:    "Extree!    Extree,  here! 
De  latest  from  de  fight ! » 

The  gnarly  sailor  paid  his  price 
And  turned  the  printed  sheet, 

Wherein  a  <(  special  cablegram  }> 
Looked  up,  his  eyes  to  greet. 

(<  I  learn  there  are  no  Spanish  ships, 
And  never  were,"  he  read. 

The  sailor  man  spat  at  the  tide. 
•Well,  I'll  be  darned, »  he  said. 

—  Anon. 


PATRIOTIC   POEMS  159 

SONG    OF    THE    BATTLESHIP    STOKERS. 


HEAVE  on  the  coal,  to  win  the  goal, 

Of  a  blasting  ocean  war! 
By  pits  of  hell  stand  sentinel, 

As  the  deadly  cannon  roar. 
The  engines  beat  in  blanching  heat; 

Our  battleship  ploughs  her  course; 
Up  there  they  fight  in  cool  daylight, 

While  we  feed  the  monster's  force. 

Over  the  sea,  our  battery 

Will  lay  waste  the  upper  world; 
And  far  from  fame  we  feed  the  flame, 

As  the  bursting  bombs  are  hurled. 
We  cannot  know  the  ebb  and  flow 

Of  the  battle's  rushing  tide; 
But  hear  the  boom  of  unknown  doom 

Where  the  thundering  warships  ride. 

Each  moment  passed  may  be  our  last, 

For  the  crashing  bomb-shells  fly, 
And  the  fires  of  fate  reverberate 

In  the  wide,  smoke-laden  sky. 
In  lurid  night  we  feed  the  fight, 

As  the  belching  cannon  roar, 
Heave  on  the  coal,  to  win  the  goal 

Of  our  country's  ocean  war! 

—  Katharine  Coolidge. 


160  WAR-TIME   ECHOES 


BATTLE    PRAYER. 


O  GOD,  at  whose  supreme  behest 

The  clang  of  war  may  sound  or  cease, 
May  we  but  fight  that  gentle  peace 

On  Cuba's  Isle  once  more  may  rest. 

If  thought  of  dark  revenge  allure, 
Or  pride  of  place,  or  idle  boast, 
In  Freedom's  name  purge  Thou  our  host, 

And  make  their  motives  just  and  pure! 

Keep  Thou  our  banner  free  from  stain, 
Its  stripes  like  rays  of  morning  light, 
Its  stars  as  clear  and  crystal  bright, 

As  those  which  deck  Thy  winter  train. 

And  in  the  din  of  war's  alarm, 

When  love's  soft  voice  is  hard  to  hear, 
Let  tender  mercy  hover  near 

To  drop  her  two-fold  healing  balm, 

So  shall  our  country  ever  be 

The  same  as  when  in  battle  bold 
She  fought  as  giants  fought  of  old; 

But  fought  for  peace  and  liberty. 

—  Francis  H.  Tabor. 


PATRIOTIC   POEMS  161 


THE    MAN    WHO    COOKS   THE    GRUB. 


WE  HAVE  read  in  song  and  story 

Of  <(the  man  behind  the  gun." 
He  is  given  all  the  glory 

Of  the  battles  that  are  won; 
They  are  filling  up  the  papers 

With  his  apotheosis, 
And  they  tell  about  his  capers, 

While  the  shells  about  him  hiss. 
But  behind  the  grimy  gunner, 

Steadfast  through  the  wild  hubbub, 
Stands  a  greater  god  of  battles  — 

'Tis  the  man  who  cooks  the  grub. 

When  the  sky  is  rent  with  thunder 

And  the  shell  screams  through  the  air, 
When  some  fort  is  rent  asunder 

And  destruction  revels  there ; 
When  the  men  in  line  go  rushing 

On  to  glory  or  to  woe, 
With  the  maddened  charges  crushing 

Heroes  who  are  lying  low; 
There  is  one  but  for  whose  labors 

There  could  be  no  wild  hubbub, 
And  the  greatest  god  of  battles 

Is  the  man  who  cooks  the  grub. 

What  of  ships  with  armor  plating? 

What  of  castles  on  the  heights  ? 
What  of  anxious  captains  waiting 

While,  the  careful  gunner  sights  ? 


1 62  WAR-TIME  ECHOES 

What  of  all  the  long-range  rifles  ? 

What  of  men  with  valiant  hearts  ? 
These  were  but  impotent  trifles, 

But  inconsequential  parts 
Of  the  whole,  without  the  fellow 

Who  must  scour,  scrape,  and  scrub  — 
For  the  greatest  god  of  battles 

Is  the  man  who  cooks  the  grub. 

—  Anon. 


*  *   * 


CAPTAIN    PHILIP. 


When  the  Spanish  flag  was  pulled  down  on  the  «  Almirante 
Oquendo,"the  commander  of  the  "Texas"  gave  the  order  to 
his  men :  *  Don't  cheer,  because  the  poor  fellows  are  dying.  * 


THE  victor  looks  over  the  shot-churned  wave 
At  the  riven  ship  of  his  foeman  brave 

And  the  men  in  their  life-blood  lying; 
And  the  joy  of  the  conquest  leaves  his  eyes, 
The  lust  of  fame  and  of  battle  dies, 

And  he  says:   "Don't  cheer;  they're  dying." 

Cycles  have  passed  since  Bayard  the  brave  — 
Passed  since  Sydney  the  water  gave, 

On  Zutphen's  red  sod  lying; 
But  the  knightly  echo  has  lingered  far  — 
It  rang  in  the  ears  of  the  Yankee  tar, 

When  he  said:   (<  Don't  cheer;   they're  dying. 

.  .  _  Charles    W.  Thompson,  in  N.  Y.  Sun. 


PATRIOTIC   POEMS  163 


VICTORY. 


Respectfully  dedicated  to  Captain  Philip,  of  the  battle- 
ship "Texas,"  July  3,  1898. 


THE  victory's  ours!     The  foeman's  vaunted  fleet. 
Pledged  to  defend  its  haughty  nation's  pride, 

Is  torn  with  shot  and  shell,  and  furnace  heat. 
And  men  aflame  with  passion's  fiercer  tide 
Sink  from  our  sight:    <(  Don't  cheer!" 

In  foreign  homes,  hearts  ache  and  vainly  plead 
For  quick  return  of  brother,  son  or  sire; 

Body  and  spirit  fast  are  being  freed 

'Neath  kindly  wave,  or  steel-girt  funeral  pyre. 
'Twill  soon  be  o'er!    «  Don't  cheer! » 

Their  work  is  done ;    they  bravely  fought  and  lost ; 

Restrain  the  victor's  vibrant,  ringing  breath; 
Send  no  exultant  note  the  space  across 

To  mock  the  vanquished  in  the  hour  of  death. 
<( They're  dying,  boys!    Don't  cheer!" 

Now  to  the  God  of  battles,  lift  the  heart 

With  reverent,  upward  look,  and  pledge  anew 
In  this,  the  hour  of  triumph,  that  your  part 
Shall  still  be  borne  to  home  and  honor  true 
(<My  hero-boys!   Don't  cheer !  w 

—  Sara  C.   Wilbur,  in  Midland  Monthly. 


1 64  WAR-TIME  ECHOES 

A    SONG    OF    HEROES. 


THEY  sing  about  the  admirals;   likewise  the  commo- 
dores, 

An'  the  men  that  take  their  orders  up  on  deck, 
An'  the  lads  that  feed  the  big  gun  while  it  rears  its 

head  and  roars 

A-pinin'  for  to  see  another  wreck. 
You'd  think  they'd  gone  clean  through  the  list  and 

never  skipped  a  thing, 

With  their  "jolly  tars,"  "hooray,"  and  <( yo-heave- 
ho!  » 

But  there's  none  as  tunes  a  string 
While  he  lifts  'is  voice  to  sing 
Of  the  Jackies  wot's  a-stokin'  down  below. 
Oh,  it's  here's  to  him  a-fightin' 

Where  the  shot  kicks  up  a  spray, 
It's  glorious  and  excitin' 

When  he  rushes  to  the  fray, 
But  there  ought  to  be  some  snatches 

On  the  way  it  stirs  your  soul 

When  they  batten  down  the  hatches 

While  you  shovel  in  the  coal. 

We   don't  go    much   on   uniforms.      In   all   that   heat 

and  dirt, 

With  flames  a-reachin'  out  to  eat  the  air, 
It's  just  a  waste  of  etiquette  to  wear  a  woolen  shirt; 

You  never  have  your  picture  taken  there. 
It's  no  use  to  deny  it;  in  your  throat  there  comes  a 
lump, 


PATRIOTIC   POEMS  165: 

As   you  think  of  home   and  wonder  where   you'll 
g° 

While  your  heart  begins  to  thump 
Like  the  wheels  that  clang  and  thump 
Round  the  Jackies  wot's  a-stokin'  down  below. 
Oh,  it's  here's  to  him  a-fightin' 

And  a  takin'  steady  aim; 
If  he's  hurt  there's  some  delight  in 

Thinkin'  he  can  do  the  same 
By  the  first  un'  that  he  catches  — 

But  we  don't  know  wot's  the  goal 
When  they  batten  down  the  hatches 
While  we  shovel  in  the  coal. 


It's  a  glorious  consolation  in  the  toilin'  and  the  thirst 

To  wipe  the  wetness  from  our  brows  and  think 
That  we're  handsomely  provided  for,  in  case  we  meet 

the  worst, 

With  a  million-dollar  coffin  when  we  sink. 
Our  hearts  is  in  the  fightin'  tops;  we're  wishin'  we 

was  there 
A-doin'  of  our  duty  by  the  foe, 

But  each  must  take  his  share 
And  they  couldn't  hardly  spare 
The  Jackies  wot's  a-stokin'  down  below. 
So  here's  to  them  that's  fightin'; 

Here's  to  the  pilot,  too; 
We  trust  'em  to  be  right  in 

Any  job  they're  out  to  do. 
Maybe  we're  to  meet  our  matches  — 

But  it's  all  past  our  control 
When  they  batten  down  the  hatches 
While  we  shovel  in  the  coal. 


l€6  WAR-TIME  ECHOES 

It  ain't   the   bloomin'    admirals;   it  ain't   the  commo- 
dores 

That  the  Spaniards  is  a  wishin'  for  to-day, 
Nor   yet    the    lads    that    handle    ammunition    out    o' 

doors, 

Where  you  stand  a  little  chance  to  get  away. 
They've  had  fighters  in  their  fam'lies  and  the  cubs'll 

fight  again, 

But    they    answered    up    most    cautious-like    and 
slow 

When  it  comes  to  askin'  men 
To  be  huddled  in  the  pen  — 
To  be  Jackies  wot's  a-stokin'  down  below. 
Says  they:  <(  We'll  do  your  fightin', 

But  that  locker  ain't  our  size, 
Where  you  wedge  the  men  so  tight  in  }>  — 

Fur  them  Dagoes  realize 
What  uncertainty  attaches 
To  the  fellers  in  a  hole 
When  they  batten  down  the  hatches 
While  we  shovel  in  the  coal. 

—  Washington  Star. 


THE    KNIGHT    IN    YELLOW. 

WAR  is  on  and  I  am  going, 

Mary  dear. 

It  is  largely  of  my  doing  — 
I  have  kept  the  thing  a-brewing, 
Kept  the  pot  a-boiling,  stewing 

For  a  year. 


PATRIOTIC   POEMS  167 

I  talked  loud  when  others  hated 

To  sail  in, 

And  my  wrath  was  ne'er  abated. 
Now  it  comes,  somewhat  belated, 
Comes  the  war  I  have  awaited 

To  begin. 

Yes,  the  haughty  foe,  we'll  whale  him, 

Fan  him  out. 

Our  staunch  Yankee  lads  '11  nail  him, 
And  our  prairie  boys  '11  flail  him, 
While  our  Southerners  will  impale  him 

Without  doubt. 

What  is  that?     Just  let  me  be, 

Darling  one  — 
I  am  talking  —  Cuba  free 
Or  Cuba  slave,  they'll  never  see 
Buzzard's  meat  made  out  of  me  — 

You  catch  on  ? 

One  kiss,  Mary,  at  the  door  — 

Don't  you  cry — 
And  when  cruel  war  no  more 
Hovers  over  sea  and  shore, 
From  Toronto  I'll  come  o'er. 

There  —  good-bye. 

—  D.F.  Peffly. 


l68  WAR-TIME   ECHOES 


THE    WAY    IN    THE    NAVY. 


(<  DESTROY  or  capture  the  enemy's  ships*  —  the  Com- 
modore hears  the  word, 
Nor  as  welcome  a  sound  to  his  seaman  ears  in  many 

a  day's  been  heard; 
So    up   and   away  the    squadron    goes,  the   steam   is 

crowded  on ; 
The  ocean  hounds  have  taken  their   bounds  to  seek 

the  wily  Don! 
They  seek   him    there,  in   his  inmost   lair,  where   he 

dreams  he  lies  secure, 
And  little  they  reck   of  the   burly  mine   or   the   sly 

torpedo's  lure. 
(<  Find  and  grapple  "  —  the  law  they  keep,  they  want 

no  other  chart; 
<(  Destroy    or    capture  >}  —  enough    for    them  —  the    A 

and  Z  o'  the  art! 

And  if  you  would  know  who  told  them  so 
You'll  find  from  the  men,  above  or  below, 
You'll  find  from  friend  and  you'll  find  from  foe  — 
<(  It's  a  way  they  have  in  the  navy ! J> 


<(  Clear   for   action, w   the  signal  waves ;   with  a  cheer 

the  men  reply  — 
Not  a  man  or  a  boy,  from  stem  to  stern,  was  afraid 

to  do  and  die! 
With    mighty  leaps    the    squadron    sweeps    thro'  the 

living  hell  of  fire, 
And   ever  the   foe,  as   the   tempests   blow,  is  nigher 

yet  and  nigher! 


PATRIOTIC   POEMS  169 

Boom !     roars    the    thirteen-incher    now    'gainst    the 

riven  armor  plate, 
The     Gatling    joins,   in    its     searching    way,    in    the 

seething  hot  debate  — 
(<  They  strike !   they   strike !  "  —  they  run,  they  run  — 

they  seek  to  save  who  can  — 
The    pride    of    Spain    is    under    the    main,   and    it's 

twenty  minutes'  span! 

And  if  you  should  ask  how  the  trick  was  done, 
How  the  fight  was  ended  and  how  begun, 
You'll  find,  in  fixing  just  how  they  won  — 
(<  It's  a  way  they  have  in  the  navy !  w 

See!    see!    they   raise   the   signal   flag  to   show  their 

dire  distress; 
Oh,  bitter  indeed   must  be   the   need   when   fighting 

men  confess! 
Lower  and  lower  sink  their  ships  —  sore  stricken  of 

limb  and  breath  — 

And  sudden  around  them  leap  the  flames  in  a  blaz- 
ing shroud  of  death. 
<(  To  the  rescue,  boys!"  the  Commodore  waves  —  but 

little  need  for  the  sign, 
For    the    boats    shoot    out,    like    living    things,    the 

length  o'  the  Yankee  line; 
Round  and  round  the  hulks  they  go,  and  round  and 

round  again, 
With  never  a  care  for  the  booty  there — for  they're 

saving  the  lives  of  men! 

And  if  you  should  wonder  why  thus  they  go 
To  succor  and  save  a  fallen  foe, 
You'll  find,  with  the  men  above  and  below  — 

<(  It's  a  way  they  have  in  the  navy!}) 

—  John   Jerome  Rooney,  in  New    York   Times. 


170  WAR-TIME  ECHOES 

MCKINLEY  TO  MILES. 

SEZ  McKinley  to  Miles,  sez  he, 

Here's  a  job,  shure,  that's  cut  out  for  you. 
There's  a  cross-grained  old  Don 
In  the  town  of  San  Juan, 

That  I  want  y'  to  go  an'  do, 
Sez  he, 
Sez  McKinley,  sez  he,  to  Miles. 

Sez  McKinley  to  Miles,  sez  he, 

I'll  ax  you  to  do  th'  thing  quick, 

An'  ye '11  not  a  bit  vex  us 

Ef  you  push  in  his  plexus, 

Shure,  y'  know  how  to  do  thot  same  thrick, 

Sez  he, 

Sez  McKinley,  sez  he,  to  Miles. 

Sez  McKinley  to  Miles,  sez  he, 

Give  him  wan  on  the  joog-u-lar  vein, 

An'  a  couple  o'  swats 

In  th'  thin  o'  th'  slats, 

B'  th'  way  o'  remiberin'  th'  (<  Maine," 

Sez  he, 

Sez  McKinley,  sez  he,  to  Miles. 

Sez  McKinley  to  Miles,  sez  he, 
Don't  fool  wid  th'  son-of-a-gun, 

But  keep  at  him,  sez  he, 

Till  he's  half  fricassee; 

That's  the  kind  of  a  job  I  want  done, 

Sez  he, 

Sez  McKinley,  sez  he,  to  Miles. 

—  Philadelphia  Evening  Call. 


PATRIOTIC   POEMS  171 


THEIR    DADDIE'S    KIDS. 


I  WAS  sittin'  and  a  thinkin' 

That  we'd  fallen  in  repute, 
That  the  young  uns  growin'  around  us 

Wasn't  heavy  on  the  shoot; 
I  was  thinkin'  of  the  volunteers 

Of  thirty  years  ago, 
And  I'd  kinder  got  it  in  my  head 

That  the  young  uns  was  too  slow; 
That  they  hadn't  got  the  git-up 

That  me  and  you  had  then, 
And  I  feered  the  sneakin'  Spaniard 

Wouldn't  find  them  fightin'  men ; 
But  bless  my  soul  and  breeches, 

If  every  consarned  kid 
Aint  a  featherin'  in  and  lickin'  em 

Jist  like  their  daddies  did. 


Why  Dewey  and  his  Yankee  tars 

Down  in  Manila  Bay, 
Cleaned  out  the  Dons  in  pretty  style 

Some  time  along  in  May; 
And  the  kids  stood  bravely  to  their  guns 

And  fired  fast  and  true, 
Till  Yankee  shot  on  Spanish  steel 

Played  Yankee  Doodle  doo; 
And  then,  in  thinkin'  over  it, 

I  thought  it  might  be  luck; 
But  now  we  know  that  Dewey  won 

By  downright  Yankee  pluck. 


172  WAR-TIME   ECHOES 

Why!   they're  our  boys  that's  with  him, 

And  every  mother's  kid 
Is  itchin'  to  git  at  'em 

Just  like  their  daddies  did. 


And  then,  them  there  Rough  Riders 

A  chargin'  up  the  hill 
Amid  a  storm  of  fire 

When  the  Spanish  shot  to  kill; 
I  tell  you  my  old  eyes  watered 

An'  I  felt  young  once  more, 
An'  longed  to  be  there  with  'em 

Amid  the  cannon's  roar. 
But  they  have  no  need  of  veterans, 

For  blamed  if  every  kid 
Don't  feather  in  an'  fight  like  smoke, 

Just  like  .their  daddies  did. 

Old  Glory  floats  in  triumph, 

The  emblem  of  the  free, 
O'er  a  hundred  million  freemen, 

On  the  masts  in  every  sea ; 
An'  when  our  pilgrimage  is  o'er, 

An'  we're  laid  beneath  the  sod, 
We'll  leave  Old  Glory  with  the  boys, 

Who,  by  the  help  of  God, 
Will  keep  it  floatin'  in  the  front, 

Where  honor  leads  the  way. 
For  succeedin'  generations 

Will  produce  the  Yankee  kid, 
Who'll  always  battle  for  the  right 

Just  like  his  daddy  did. 

—  Prof.  J.  H.  Br  inker  ho ff. 


PATRIOTIC   POEMS  173 


ANANIAS   OUTDONE. 


Two  ghastly  shapes  came  stealing  from 

A  deep  and  ancient  grave; 
They  heard  the  never  silent  hum 

That  marks  the  human  wave. 

They  heard  the  newsboys'  strident  shout, 

And  one  did  stop  and  buy; 
And  through  the  sheet  thus  hawked  about, 

He  scanned  with  eager  eye. 

And  as  he  read  the  headlines  o'er 
His  face  grew  peaked  and  pale, 

And  when  he'd  read  a  little  more 
He  grasped  the  nearest  rail. 

(<  Sapphira,  dear, }>  he  faintly  cried, 
<(This  war  news,  bold  and  brash, 

Convinces  me  we  never  lied  — 
Our  record's  gone  to  smash!" 

—  Cleveland  Plain  Dealer. 


174  WAR-TIME  ECHOES 

OUR    SOLDIERS'    SONG. 


When  the  destruction  of  Cervera's  fleet  became  known  before  San- 
tiago, the  soldiers  cheered  wildly  and  with  one  accord,  through  miles 
of  trenches,  and  began  singing  «  The  Star-Spangled  Banner." 


SINGING  (<  The  Star-Spangled  Banner w 

In  the  very  jaws  of  death! 
Singing1  our  glorious  anthem, 

Some  with  their  latest  breath! 
The  strains  of  that  solemn  music 

Through  the  spirit  will  ever  roll, 
Thrilling  with  martial  ardor 

The  depths  of  each  patriot  soul. 

Hearing  the  hum  of  the  bullets! 

Eager  to  charge  the  foe! 
Biding  the  call  to  battle, 

Where  crimson  heart  streams  flow! 
Thinking  of  home  and  dear  ones, 

Of  mother,  of  child,  of  wife, 
They  sang  <(The  Star-Spangled  Banner w 

On  that  field  of  deadly  strife. 

They  sang  with  the  voices  of  heroes, 

In  the  face  of  the  Spanish  guns, 
As  they  leaned  on  their  loaded  rifles, 

With  the  courage  that  never  runs. 
They  sang  to  our  glorious  emblem, 

Upraised  on  that  war-worn  sod, 
As  the  saints  in  the  old  arena 

Sang  a  song  of  praise  to  God, 
—  David  Graham  Adee,  in  N.  Y.  Herald. 


PATRIOTIC   POEMS  175 

A    NATIONAL    HYMN. 


OUR  Father  in  heaven,  we  hallow  Thy  name, 

In    Thee    is    our    trust   placed,    our    confidence 

grounded, 
Defend    Thou    the    right,    to    the    righteous    bring 

fame, 

But  crush  Thou  all  tyrants;   may  their  arts  be 
confounded. 

Free  the  suffering  slave, 
And  inspire  every  brave 
With  courage  and  strength  that  is  mighty  to  save. 

CHORUS — 

For  so  shall  the  Star-Spangled  Banner  long  wave 
O'er  the   land  of  the  free   and   the  home  of  the 
brave. 

God  bless  our  loved  land,  bless  our  President,  too, 
Bless  our  army  and  navy,  our  judges  and  con- 
gress, 

Bless  the  people,  O  Lord,  and  bless  all  they  do 
To  enlighten  the  nations  and  help  the  world's 
progress. . 

Guide  Thou  all  their  ways, 
Grant  them  lengthening  of  days, 
And   to   Thee  we'll  give  thanks,  honor,  glory,  and 
praise. 

And  when  we  in  war  shall  be  forced  to  engage, 
To  free  the  oppressed  or  repel  an  invader, 


T7<5  WAR-TIME  ECHOES 

Though    millions    her    foes    and    though    madness 

their  rage, 

We'll  not  fear  for  our  land  if  Thou  do  but  aid 
her. 

So,  Lord,  for  us  fight, 
Pray  defend  Thou  the  right, 

And  bring  to  those  vict'ry  who  trust  in  Thy  might. 

—  Detroit  News-  Tribune. 


*   *   * 


AT   THE    OLD    STAND. 


THE  man  who  used  to  stand  around 

And  tell  why  war  should  be  begun, 
Who  howled  for  gore  long,  long-  before 

The  evil  to  the  (  Maine  }  was  done  — 
Where  is  he  now,  oh,  prythee,  say  ? 

Has  he  gone  out  to  meet  the  foe  ? 
Was  he  with  those  who  marched  away 

To  lay  the  hated  Spaniard  low  ? M 

Nay,  he  was  not  among  the  men 

Who  shouldered  arms  and  hurried  out 
With  vows  to  come  home  only  when 

The  tricky  foe  is  put  to  rout  — 
The  man  who  wanted  blood  to  run 

Is  here  and  howling  as  before; 
It  seems  * the  fools  at  Washington  J 

Ignore  his  plans  for  making  war.w 

—  Anon. 


PATRIOTIC   POEMS  177 

THE    RED    CROSS. 


THEY,  too,  have  heard  the  drum-beat, 
They  follow  the  bugle's  call, 

These  who  are  swift  with  pity 

On  the  field  where  brave  men  fall. 

When  the  battle  boom  is  silent, 
And  the  echoing  thunder  dies, 

They  haste  to  the  plain  red  sodden 
With  the  blood  of  sacrifice. 

The  flag  that  floats  above  them 
Is  marked  with  a  crimson  sign, 

Pledge  of  a  great  compassion, 
And  the  rifted  heart  Divine, 

That  once  for  man's  redemption, 
Knew  earth's  completest  loss, 

These  to  the  field  of  valor 
Bring  love's  immortal  cross. 

And  so  they  follow  the  bugle, 
And  heed  the  drum-beat's  call, 

But  their  errand  is  one  of  pity  — 
They  succor  the  men  who  fall. 

Grand  Army  Advocate, 

12 


178  WAR-TIME  ECHOES  " 

THE  RED  CROSS  ARMY  NURSE, 


THE  praises  of  the  admirals  are  ringing  everywhere; 
The  plaudits  of  the  generals  are  singing  in  the  air; 
The  men  who  sailed  to  sink  their  lives  within  the 

tt  Merrimac }> 
(So  dauntless   they   that   even   death   was   fearful    to 

attack) ! 
The  hard  marines  whose  tactics  knew  no  signal  for 

retreat ; 
In  the  rain  of  Mauser  bullets  and  the  drench  of  tropic 

heat, 

The  rough-and-ready  riders  in  their  resolute  advance; 
All  make  our  daily  records  a  continuous  romance. 
We  cry  them  in  our  stories;   we  chant  them   in   our 

verse, 
But  let  us  sing  a  stanza  for  the  Red  Cross  army  nurse. 

She  is  in  the  foremost  battle,  she  is  in  the  rearmost 

tents, 

She  wears  no  weapon  of  attack,  no  armor  of  defence ; 
She  is  braver  than  the  bravest,  she  is  truer  than  the 

true, 
She  asks  not  if  the  soldier  struck  for  red  and  white 

and  blue, 

She  asks  not  if  he  fell  beneath  the  yellow  and  the  red ; 
She  is  mother  to  the  wounded,  she  is  sister  to  the 

dead. 
The  victor's  cheers  ring  in  her  ears,  but    these    she 

does  not  heed; 
The  victim's  moans  and  dying  groans   are   given  as 

her  meed 


PATRIOTIC   POEMS  179 

And   many   a    suffering    hero    chokes    his    blind    and 

sullen  curse 
To  smooth  it  to  a  blessing  for  the  Red  Cross  army 

nurse. 

Work  on,  O  noble  army,  and  the  crown  of  crowns  be 
yours, 

Not  always  shall  destruction  be  the  glory  which  en- 
dures. 

It  is  coming,  it  is  coming;  you  are   helping  on  the 
day 

When  we  learn  the  nobler  action  is  to  succor,  not  to 
slay: 

It  is  coming,  it  is  coming;  you  are  aiding  it  along, 

When   we   know  the  feeblest   nation  is  as  potent  as 
the  strong;  , 

It  is  coming,  it  is  coming ;  you  are  bringing  it  to  pass, 

When  the  ships  have  shed  their  armor  and  the  for- 
tresses are  glass; 

But  in  the  stormy  waiting  till  the  armaments  disperse, 

Our  blessings  on  the  flower  of  war  —  the  Red  Cross 
army  nurse! 

—  J,  Edmund  Vance  Cooke. 

*    *    * 

MY    WAR    GIRL. 


SHE  wore  a  dress  of  navy  blue, 

The  collar  white  and  blue  and  red, 

A  striped  belt  —  and  stockings,  too; 
A  sailor  hat  was  on  her  head. 


l8o  WAR-TIME   ECHOES 

Red,  white  and  blue  her  chatelaine; 

She  had  a  flag  beneath  her  chin, 
She  wore  a  badge  — «  U.  S.  S.  Maine, » 

A  tiny  cannon  for  a  pin. 

She  wore  a  shell-comb  in  her  hair, 

With  army  buttons' all  embossed; 
Some  swords  were  also  sticking  there, 

And  at  her  belt  small  rifles  crossed. 
Her  pocketbook  was  knapsack  shape, 

Her  smelling  bottle  a  wee  canteen 
Containing  essence  of  <(  Crushed  Grape  w  — 

The  neatest  thing  I'd  ever  seen. 

Her  face  was  patriotic,  too, 

And  full  of  everlasting  charms; 
Her  cheeks  were. red,  teeth  white,  eyes  blue; 

She  also  had  repeating  arms. 
In  fact,  she  was  in  *  lighting  trim," 

So  an  (<  engagement  >J  I  did  seek ; 
And  though  my  chance  to  win  was  slim, 

I  cruised  around  about  her  cheek. 

Puff !     Suddenly  she  fired  at  me 

A  perfect  fusilade  of  smiles! 
It  shook  my  heart  "windward"  to  "lee." 

Re-echoing  for  miles  and  miles! 
My  rapid-firing  lips  I  turned 

Upon  her  then  (for  they  were  loaded), 
But  when  the  fast-sent  kisses  burned, 

The  powder  on  her, face  exploded! 

—  James  Courtney  Challiss, 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS  l8l 


THE    OLD    MAN'S    BOYS. 


a  WE  HAD  two  sons/  the  old  man  said  unto  the  lis- 
tening crowd, 

tt  Two  strapping  husky  boys  of  whom  we  was  almighty 
proud. 

From  infancy  we  watched  'em  grow,  an'  tried  to 
raise  'em  right; 

An'  all  the  neighbors  used  to  say  they  was  uncom- 
mon bright. 

In  every  class  at  school  they  stood  almighty  near 
the  head, 

An'  when  they  left  their  boyhood  home  admirin' 
people  said 

They  sure  would  make  their  mark  in  life;  would 
some  day  write  our  name 

In  characters  that  all  could  read  upon  the  scroll  of 
fame. 


(<We  never  dreamed  that  war'd  come,  in  them  bright, 

peaceful  days, 
Or  that  the  kids   'd  want  to  go  where  warfires  was 

ablaze, 
An'  when  the  letter  come  that  told  that  both  of  them 

would  go 
My  heart   jest    seemed   a   jumpin'    lump    o'   pain,   it 

hurt  me  so! 
I  broke   the   news  to  mother  in  the   gentlest  way  I 

knowed, 
An'  it  jest  seemed  to  break  us  down,  so  heavy  was 

the  load. 


1 82  WAR-TIME  ECHOES 

An'  in  the  apprehensive  fear  that  mebbe  they  might 

fall, 
Our  cup  of  agony  seemed   full  of  wormwood  an'  of 

gall! 

(<  One  of  'em  is  a  lyin'  now  on  Santiago  Bay. 

An'    one    lies    'neath    the    tropic    sun    at    Ponce,    fur 

away, 
An'  I've  bin  told  a  many  a  time  by  them  as  knows 

their  worth, 
There   ain't   two  more   accomplished   liars  on    top  of 

God's  green  earth. 
No,   sir,  they  are   not   boys  in  blue;   they're  far  too 

smart,  I  think, 
To  fight  when  they  kin  make  a  durned  sight  more 

a  slingin'  ink. 
They've  too  much  savey  in  their  heads  for  soldierin', 

I  guess  — 

Both  of  'em's  correspondents  fur  the  'Sociated  Press. }) 

—  Denver  Post. 

*   *   * 


THE    ABSENT    BOY. 

THEY  miss  him  in  the  orchard  where  the  fruit  is  sun- 
ning over, 
And  in  the  meadow  where  the  air  is  sweet  with 

new-mown  hay, 
And  all  about  the  old  farm  which  knew  him  for  a 

lover, 

From  the  early  seedtime  onward  till  the  crops  were 
piled  away. 


PATRIOTIC   POEMS  183 

They  miss  him   in   the    village  where   nothing  went 

without  him, 
Where  to-day  the  young  folks'  parties  are  dull  and 

incomplete, 
They  cannot  just  explain  it,  there  was  such  a  charm 

about  him, 

The  drop  of  cheer  he  always  brought  made  com- 
mon daylight  sweet. 

And  now   he's   gone    to  Cuba,  he's  fighting    for    the 

nation, 

He's  charging  with  the  others,  a  lad  in  army  blue. 
His   name    is  .little    known    yet,  but    at    the    upland 

station, 

They  all  are  sure  you'll  hear  it  before  the  war  is 
through. 

And  when  you  talk  of  battles,  and  scan  the  printed 

column, 
His  regiment's  the   one  they  seek,  his   neighbors 

think  and  care; 
The   more  they  do  not  speak  of  it,  their  look  grows 

grave  and  solemn, 

For  somewhere  in  the  thick  of  strife,  they  know 
their  boy  is  there. 

—  Margaret  E.  Sangster. 


1 84  WAR-TIME  ECHOES 

THE    ONE    WHO   WONT    BE    THERE. 


I  DON'T  think  I'll  go  in  to  town  to  see  the  boys  come 

back; 
My  bein'   there  would   do   no  good   in   all   that  jam 

and  pack; 
There'll  be  enough  to  welcome  them  —  to  cheer  them 

when  they  come 
A-marchin'  bravely  to  the  time  that's  beat  upon  the 

drum  — 
They'll   never   miss   me   in   the   crowd  —  not  one   of 

'em  will  care 
If,  when  the  cheers  are  ringin'  loud,  I'm  not  among 

them  there. 

I  went   to   see   them   march   away — I   hollered  with 

the  rest, 
And  didn't  they  look  fine  that  day,  a-marchin'  four 

abreast, 
With  my  boy  James  up  near  the  front,  as  handsome 

as  could  be, 
And  wavin'   back  a  fond   farewell  to  mother  and  to 

me! 
I  vow  my  old  knees  trembled  so,  when  they  had  all 

got  by, 
I  had  to  jist  set  down  upon  the  curbstone  there  and 

cry. 

And   now   they're    comin'   home    agen!      The   record 

that  they  won 
Was   sich   as   shows  we   still   have   men  when   men's 

work's  to  be  done! 


PATRIOTIC   POEMS  185 

There   wasn't   one   of   'em   that   flinched,   each   feller 

stood  the  test  — 
Wherever   they  were   sent   they  sailed   right   in  and 

done  their  best! 
They   didn't   go    away   to   play  —  they   knowed   what 

was  in  store  — 
But  there's  a  grave  somewhere,  to-day,  down  on  the 

Cuban  shore! 

I   guess   that    I'll  not    go    to   town   to   see    the    boys 

come   in; 
I  don't  jist  feel  like  mixin'  up  in  all  that  crush  and 

din! 
There'll  be  enough  to  welcome  them — to  cheer  them 

when  they  come, 
A-marchin'  bravely  to  the  time  that's  beat  upon  the 

drum, 
And  the  boys'll  never  notice  —  not  a  one  of  'em  will 

care, 
For  the  soldier  that  would  miss  me  ain't  a-goin'   to 

be  there! 

—  Cleveland  Leader. 

*   *   * 


THE  MAN  BEHIND  THE  TAPE. 


WE'VE  praised  the  men  behind  the  guns 

In  story  and  in  verse; 
The  man  behind  the  shovel,  too, 

Was  voted  not  so  worse. 
We've  praised  the  man  behind  the  pans 

That  cooked  the  fighters'  lunch; 


1 86  WAR-TIME  ECHOES 

And  now  what  have  we  for  the  man 
Behind  the  little  bunch 
Of  tape, 
Red  tape? 

We've  sung  about  the  man  behind 

The  guns  till  we  are  hoarse; 
The  man  behind  the  smokestack  has 

Been  praised  a  bit,  of  course. 
The  man  behind  the  rolling-pin 

Has  had  his  lyric  hunch; 
And  now  what  have  we  for  the  man 
Behind  the  little  bunch 
Of  tape, 
Red  tape  ? 

—  Baltimore  American. 

*   *   * 


AN    IMMORTAL    CROWN. 

WITH  dauntless  breast,  when  Duty  calls, 
He  answers,  <(  Here ! }>   and  tho'  he  falls 
And  dies,  where  war's  harsh  thunders  roll, 
Death  cannot  fright  his  fearless  soul. 

Up  from  the  ills  and  cares  of  life; 
Up  from  the  din  of  mortal  strife, 
To  find,  beyond  Death's  frowning  portal, 
A  Victor's  crown  and  life  immortal. 

—  Anon. 


PATRIOTIC   POEMS  187 


WE    LEFT    HIM    ON    THE    FIELD. 


THEY  marched  along  the  crowded  street 

With  faces  brown  and  worn; 
The  flag  that  o'er  them  waved  its  folds 

Was  shell  and  bullet  torn. 
<(  What  of  my  boy  ? w  a  mother  cried ! 

A  soldier  marching  by 
Turned  quickly  when  he  heard  the  call, 

And  caught  that  mother  eye. 
(<  What  of  your  boy  ?     He  was  a  man  — 

The  kind  that  does  not  yield. 
He  fell  in  Santiago's  fight, 

We  left  him  on  the  field. » 


«We  left  him  on  the  field, 
Where  Spanish  foemen  reeled. 
He  died  beneath  his  country's  flag  — 
We  left  him  on  the  field. » 


«We  left  him  on  that  bloody  field 

Beneath  the  tropic  sun, 
And  many  a  gallant  boy  lay  there 

Before  the  day  was  done. 
We  rushed  their  trenches,  one  by  one, 

While  bullets  came  like  hail; 
Full  many  a  brave  lad  bit  the  dust; 

But  never  one  did  quail. 
'Gainst  Spanish  blood  and  Spanish  guile 

Our  hands  and  hearts  were  steeled  — 


1 88  WAR-TIME  ECHOES 

Your  boy  did  all  a  hero  could  — 
We  left  him  on  the  field. » 


«  We  left  him  on  the  field, 
Where  battling  foemen  reeled. 
He  died  a  young  American  — 
We  left  him  on  the  field. » 


The  mother  turned  to  leave  the  spot, 

With  sobs  that  shook  her  frame. 
The  glory  of  her  country's  flag 

To  her  was  but  a  name. 
While  people  cheered  the  marching  troops 

She  stood  with  drooping  head. 
She  could  not  think,  she  could  not  speak  — 

Her  boy  —  her  boy — was  dead! 
She  slowly  raised  her  face  to  heaven 

And  silently  appealed  — 
While  through  her  brain  still  rang  the  words 

«  We  left  him  on  the  field. » 

«We  left  him  on  the  field, 
Where  Spanish  foemen  reeled. 
Your  boy  was  ours  as  well  as  yours  — 
We  left  him  on  the  field. » 

—  James  Stuart  Dzxon,  in  Detroit  Tribune. 


PATRIOTIC   POEMS  189 

LAST   TAPS. 


CARRY  him  out  and  put  him  away, 
Reveille  no  more  wakes  him  now; 

We've  sounded  his  last  (<  Lights  out w  to-day, 
And  the  dust  has  fallen  on  lips  and  brow; 

So  leave  him  there,  leave  him  there,  resting  still, 

With  heed  no  more  for  retreat  or  drill. 

Lead  his  horse  back  to  the  camp  again, 
Lead  the  beast  kindly,  for,  don't  you  see, 

He  frets  at  the  guidance  of  other  men  — 
He  misses  the  press  of  familiar  knee; 

So  lead  him  back  over  the  glaring  sand 

Kindly,  for  sake  of  the  other  hand. 

Three  volleys  over  the  trooper's  grave, 

And  he  moved  no  eyelid  at  noise  of  the  three. 

«  Ave »  the  first,  to  the  soul  of  the  brave, 

And  the  second  <(God  speed"  from  the  com- 
pany, 

And  the  last  said  "Vale/  and  then  we  turned 

And  left  him  waiting  what  peace  he  had  earned. 

We  shed  no  tear  and  we  make  no  moan 

For  the  man  who  has  left  us  to  rest  a  while. 

We  pity  him,  lying  there  all  alone, 

We  recall  old  gesture  and  quiet  smile; 

But  why  should  we  weep  for  him  now,  when  he 

Wanted  «  Lights  out »  through  eternity  ? 

—  Theodore  Roberts,  in  The  Independent, 


190  WAR-TIME  ECHOES 


PEACE    AT    LAST. 


Now  the  war  drum  throbs  no  longer, 

And  the  battle-flags  are  furled; 
We  exclaim  in  tones  of  rapture, 

(<  We're  at  peace  with  all  the  world ! w 
Peace  at  last,  in  all  our  borders, 

Peace  in  all  our  wide  domain; 
On  the  land  and  on  the  waters  — 

Peace  at  last  with  haughty  Spain. 

Homeward  soon  the  son  and  brother, 

Home  the  lover  and  the  man. 
Friends  will  gladly  hail  their  coming  — 

Some,  alas!   will  wait  in  vain. 
Pitying  angels  hover  o'er  them, 

Kiss  away  their  falling  tears, 
Cheer  the  homes,  so  sad  and  lonely, 

Cheer  their  hearts  through  coming  years. 

God  of  nations,  we  would  praise  thee! 

Freedom's  battle  fought  and  won! 
Broken  every  chain  and  fetter! 

Free  the  father  and  the  son! 
May  the  isles  so  fair  and  fruitful, 

Where  the  Stars  and  Stripes  shall  wave, 
Be  transformed,  redeemed,  uplifted  — 

Never  calling  man  a  slave. 

Blessed  peace!     We  hail  its  coming, 
Bringing  blessings  in  its  train, 


PATRIOTIC   POEMS  191 

Blessings  for  the  isles  of  ocean, 

Blessings  yet,  we  trust,  for  Spain. 

May  the  Gospel's  light  and  glory, 
Bid  its  sin  and  strife  to  cease, 

'Till  that  land  of  ancient  story, 

Welcomes  in  the  Prince  of  Peace. 

—  Mrs.  Mary  JB.   Wing  ate. 

*   *   * 


WHEN    THE    BOYS    COME    HOME 


THERE'S  a  happy  time  coming, 
When  the  boys  come  home. 

There's  a  glorious  day  coming, 
When  the  boys  come  home. 

We  will  end  the  dreadful  story 

Of  this  treason  dark  and  gory 

In  a  sunburst  of  glory 

When  the  boys  come  home. 

The  day  will  seem  brighter, 

When  the  boys  come  home, 
For  our  hearts  will  be  lighter, 
When  the  boys  come  home. 
Wives  and  sweethearts  will  press  them 
In  their  arms  and  caress  them, 
And  pray  God  to  bless  them, 
When  the  boys  come  home. 

The  thinned  ranks  will  be  proudest, 
When  the  boys  come  home, 


192  WAR-TIME   ECHOES 

And  their  cheer  will  ring  the  loudest, 

When  the  boys  come  home. 

The  full  ranks  will  be  shattered, 

And  the  bright  arms  will  be  battered, 

And  the  battle-standards  tattered, 

When  the  boys  come  home. 

Their  bayonets  may  be  rusty, 
When  the  boys  come  home, 

And  their  uniforms  dusty, 
When  the  boys  come  home. 

But  all  shall  see  the  traces 

Of  battle's  royal  graces 

In  the  brown  and  bearded  faces, 
When  the  boys  come  home. 

Our  love  shall  go  to  meet  them, 

When  the  boys  come  home, 
To  bless  them  and  to  greet  them, 

When  the  boys  come  home. 
And  the  fame  of  their  endeavor 
Time  and  change  shall  not  dissever 
From  the  nation's  heart  forever, 
When  the  boys  come  home. 

—  John  Hay. 

*  *  * 


GIT    ER   SHOUTIINT. 


LISTEN,  chillun,  don'  you'  hear  hit  ? 

Daddy's  savin*  wah  is  don'. 
'Pears  lak  some  one  ought  ter  cheer  hit, 

Beat  er  drum,  or  shoot  er  gun. 


PATRIOTIC   POEMS  193 

Looks  'sif  the  rockets  ought  ter 

Get  ter  blazin'  crost  de  sky, 
Caze  our  sojers  up  an'  fought  'er, 

Lanxlin'  Spain  jes'  high  an'  dry. 

Wen  our  sojers  went  to  Cuba 

Drums  they  beat,  an'  bugles  blowed, 

Everybody  danced  a  juba, 

Sendin'  Spain  off  down  de  road. 

Now  we'se  don'  hit,  w'at's  de  reason 

We  don't  celebrate  for  peace  ? 
Reckon  hit's  er  joyful  season 

Wen  dem  spunky  guns  kin  cease. 

Reckon  dat  er  men  er  fightln' 

Mighty  glad  de  wah  is  done; 
Glad  ter  see  dern  Spaniards  kitin' 

Fast  as  dey  kin  scoot  an'  run. 

Lawsee,  chillun,  doan'  you  hear  hit  ? 

Wah  is  don'  fer,  peace  is  come; 
Yet  dar  hain't  no  one  ter  cheer  hit, 

Ring  er  bells,  an'  beat  er  drum! 

Hi,  you  niggahs,  get  er  scootin', 

Tote  dat  flag  up  yondah  hill! 
Git  you'  hohns,  an'  set  'em  tootin'  — 

Don'  yo*  dah  ter  keep  'em  still! 

I'se  so  glad  de  wah  is  ober, 

Glad  de  fightin'  gwine  ter  cease; 

Golly,  chillun,  wese  in  clober — 
Git  ter  shoutin'  now  fer  peace! 

j  — Detroit  Journal. 


194  WAR-TIME  ECHOES 

WHEN    THE    FLAG    COMES    HOME, 


WHEN  the  flag  comes  home,  when  the  streets  are 
filled 

With  the  sound  of  marching  feet; 
When    the   war    drums   cease    and   the    sword    is 
sheathed, 

And  lips  to  lips  repeat  — 
«Tis  the  hero  there  from  the  battle's  glare, 

Hurrah!  for  the  brave  and  true, 
And  hurrah  for  the  flag,  the  grand  old  rag 

Of  the  Red  and  White  and  Blue ! » 

When  the  cannon's  roar  is  heard  no  more, 

When  the  soldiers  from  the  fray 
Come  back  from  the  strife  to  babes  and  wife 

There'll  be  music  down  the  way. 
And  the  ranks  will  hold  the  heroes  bold 

With  the  flag  above  them  sweet, 
As  they  march  along  to  a  welcome  song, 

From  the  lips  they  long  to  greet. 

The  flag  that  floats  while  a  thousand  throats 

Repeat  its  song  of  praise; 
The  flag  that  led  where  the  bullets  sped 

Through  the  smoke  of  the  battle  haze; 
The  flag  that's  the  pride  of  the  brave  who  died 

And  sank  to  the  soldiers'  rest, 
With  a  sigh  of  love  for  the  stars  above. 

And  it  folds  upon  its  breast. 

When  the  flag  comes  home,  and  it  passes  by, 
And  the  files  march  one  by  one, 


PATRIOTIC   POEMS  195 

The  sun's  bright  ray  will  burn  that  day 

As  it  never  yet  has  done; 
While  the  people's  cheer  will  echo  clear, 

And  the  banners  wave  on  high, 
For  the  heroes  true,  dear  land,  for  you 

That  fought  'neath  the  tropic  sky. 

When  the  flag  comes  home,  will  all  be  gay  ? 

Will  all  whose  loved  were  there 
Stand  by  to  shout  when  the  crowds  turn  out, 

Or  whisper  a  lonely  prayer? 
For  the  hosts  may  come,  but  the  muffled  drum 

Has  played  the  dirges  drear 
For  heroes  slain  in  the  awful  rain 

They  faced  without  a  fear. 

When  the  flag  comes  home  some  hearts  will  weep, 

And  little  eyes  with  tears 
Will  fill  for  the  thoughts  of  sorrows  wrought 

For  them  through  the  long,  long  years, 
And  a  mother's  ear  no  more  will  hear 

The  step  she  used  to  know; 
And  a  widow's  heart  will  beat  apart 

In  a  grave  where  the  lilies  grow. 

But  the  flag,  ah!  sweet,  down  lane  and  street, 

When  it  comes  from  the  fields  of  war, 
The  people's  cheer  will  echo  clear 

And  they'll  love  it  more  and  more  — 
For  the  victories  won  'neath  the  tropic  sun, 

For  the  heroes  stepping  gay 
As  the  war  drums  beat  and  the  thousands  greet 

The  ranks  that  marched  away. 


196  WAR-TIME   ECHOES 

But  better  still,  for  the  deeds  that  thrill 

The  heart  with  tenderness, 
For  the  sad  and  lone  who  yearn  and  moan 

In  vain  for  the  dear  caress 
Of  a  hand  that  lies  'neath  the  tropic  skies 

With  a  musket  in  his  grasp, 
And  a  little  face  with  a  smile  of  grace, 

In  a  locket's  golden  clasp. 

And  better  still  for  the  brave  and  true. 

Who  fell  on  the  battle  field, 
Who  faced  the  fray  in  the  hero-way 

And  knew  not  how  to  yield; 
Who  sank  to  sleep  where  the  grasses  creep, 

In  the  soldier's  dreamless  rest  — 
With  a  sigh  of  love  for  the  flag  above 

And  its  folds  upon  their  breast. 

—  Anon. 

*   *   * 


PAX    VOBISCUM. 


ALL  hail  the  olive  branch,  borne  to  the  ship  of  state ! 
Leonine    lately    seemed    the    nation    roused;    yet 

now 

Her  countenance  turns  lamb-like  as  she  doth  await, 
To  greet  her  sons  returning  to  the  shop  and  plow. 
From    north   and    south,    from   east  and    west,    they 

poured, 

When  she  had  called  their  aid  and  bade  them  take 
the  sword. 


PATRIOTIC   POEMS  197 

The  din  of   battle   o'er   the    blood-stained   field   hath 

ceased ; 
The    smoke    of    conflict    by    the    winds    is    wafted 

thence ; 
The    cry   for   vengeance    (strong   it   was)    hath    been 

appeased. 

'Tis  great,  as  conq'rors  to  condone  a  foe's  offense; 
'Tis  greater  still  not  to  betray  the  hopeful  trust 
Of  hapless  peoples,  who  have  found  deliverers  just. 

<(  Peace  hath   her   victories, })  her   Sabbath   bells   peal 

high, 
Although  their  chimes  sound  joyous,  voicing  naught 

but  mirth, 

Yet  hearts  bereaved  by  war's  ravages,  passing  by, 
Are  minded  of  their  losses  sore   and  tears  afresh 

burst  forth. 

No  festival  can  still  the  mourning  for  the  dead, 
Or  change  to  drops  of  joy  the   bitter   tears   they 
shed. 

The    gentle   touch   of    time    alone    may   soothe    such 

grief. 

Oh!  nation,  triumphant  and  strong  in  all  thy  pride, 
Bow  humbly  down,  nor  cease  within  thy  heart's  be- 
lief 
And   creed    of   creeds    to   honor   duly   those    who 

died 

On  land  and  sea;  the  threefold  priceless  legacy 
Of  honor,  love,  and  life  they  gave  to  thee. 

—  Thomas  E.   Smiley,  in  Indianapolis  Sentinel. 


198  WAR-TIME   ECHOES 

A    HYMN    OF    VICTORY. 

IT  is  won! 

Silent  musket,  shell  and  gun. 

Flash  the  tidings  east  and  west! 
Bells  of  all  the  Christian  lands, 
Clap  your  mighty  iron  hands. 

Love  has  succored  the  distrest. 

War  is  done! 

Might  was  right 

In  the  fierce  and  stubborn  fight! 

While  the  Stars  waved  o'er  the  fleet 

God  was  sitting  on  His  throne. 

Freedom  battled  not  alone; 
Lightnings  from  the  judgment  seat 
Smote  men's  sight! 

Praise  be  Thine, 

God  of  battle,  Power  Divine! 

We,  Thy  servants,  at  Thy  word, 

Flung  the  banner  Thou  hast  blest 
O'er  the  pleading  and  oppressed. 

Here,  oh,  Justice,  is  thy  sword 

Red  as  wine! 

Now  at  last; 

Let  the  battle  rage  be  past! 

To  the  foeman  stricken  sore 

Let  us  stretch  the  brother  hand. 

Peace  unto  his  troubled  land, 
And  an  honored  flag  once  more 
To  his  mast! 

—  Jame*  Buckham,  in  Leslie's   Weekly. 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS  199 


THE    NEW    UNITED    STATES. 


THERE'S  a  bustle  in  Hawaii, 

There's  a  stir  in  the  Ladrones; 
We  may  talk  with  Porto  Rico 

Through  long-distance  telephones. 
And  each  morning  at  our  doorway, 

With  the  ink  still  fresh  and  wet, 
Is  laid  down  the  last  edition 

Of  the  Philippine  «  Gazette. » 

I've  a  girl  in  Honolulu, 

And  another  in  San  Juan ; 
And  as  latest  Yankee  lasses 

They  are  nice  to  look  upon. 
While  the  maiden  who  in  Skagway 

Was  an  acquisition  rare 
Must  resign,  for  in  Manila 

I  have  one  with  longer  hair. 

Mayaguez  and  Arecibo, 

Aguadilla — what  are  these 
But  the  germs  of  Yankee  cities 

Waking  after  centuries  ? 
And  we  speak  of  Kahoolawe, 

Mindanao  and  Luzon 
In  the  same  breath  with  Ohio, 

Massachusetts,  Oregon. 

Comes  a  national  election, 
And  a  people  wait,  intent, 


200  .    WAR-TIME   ECHOES 

For  the  verdict  of  the  ballot 

As  to  who  is  President. 
Then  the  thirty-second  precinct 

Of  the  Island  of  Cebu, 
Boosts  Schley  Garcia  Aguinaldo 

So  he  barely  squeezes  through. 

—  Rdwin  L.  Sab  in. 
*   *   * 


TE    DEUM    LAUDAMUS. 


LORD,  in  this  our  triumph  hour, 
Let  us  own  Thy  sovereign  power. 
Not  to  us  the  praise  belongs; 
Unto  Thee  the  victor's  songs. 

Thine  the  arm  that  struck  the  blow; 
Thine  the  conquest  of  our^foe; 
So  to-day  we  raise  to  Thee 
Hymns  of  thanks  on  land  and  sea. 

Now  that  cannon  roar  no  more, 
Now  that  clash  of  arms  is  o'er, 
On  our  lips  Thy  Name  shall  swell. 
In  our  hearts  Thy  Name  shall  dwell. 

In  Thy  hands  the  issue  lay; 
Thou  hast  led  us  all  the  way; 
Then  shall  all  the  honor  be, 
God  of  Battles!    unto  Thee. 

—  New   York   Tribune. 


PATRIOTIC   POEMS  201 


THE    JOLLY    OLD    FLAG. 


THAR'S  somethin'  in  the  ripple  of  the  flag  that  'pears 

to  me 
Means    that    Old    Glory's     confident, —  she's    wavin' 

«  Victory !  » 

The  winds  aroun'  her  sing  it  an'  wing  it  overhead  — 
Thar's  a  kinder  jubilation  in  her  rumpled  stripes  o' 

red! 

Thar's  somethin'  in  the  ripple  of  the  flag  that  'pears 

to  me 
Says:  (<You  jest  keep  the  country  and  Dewey'll  hold 

the  sea!» 
The    winds    aroun'    her    sing    it    to    countryside    an' 

town  — 
Thar's  a  kind  of  jubilation  in  the  red  stripes  ripplin' 

down !  ' 

Somethin'  in  it,  people!     I  never  seen  her  so 
Peart-like   an'   tickled,  when  the  wind  makes  up   its 

mind  to  blow! 
I    yell    « Hurrah ! »      She   answers    from   the   flagstaff 

on  the  shed 
With   a  reg'lar   jubilation   in  her  rumpled   stripes  o' 

red! 

—  Frank  L,  Stanton. 


202  WAR-TIME   ECHOES 


ON    THE    SEA    THRONE. 


NOT  yet  the  viking's  hands  are  weak, 
Not  yet  his  blood  grown  pale; 

Not  yet  his  ship  has  turned  her  beak 
And  spread  a  flying  sail. 

Not  yet  the  Iceland  peak  has  thawed 

Before  the  southern  sun; 
Not  yet  the  man  of  gales  has  warred 

And  left  the  field  unwon. 

Not  yet  his  hand,  at  close  of  fight, 

Has  hauled  the  raven  down; 
The  gleam  beneath  the  bird  of  night 

Is  still  the  sea  king's  crown. 

Turn  back,  oh,  southern  man,  thy  prow; 

The  viking  bars  the  way. 
The  berserk  lines  are  'thwart  his  brow; 

Tempt  not  his  wrath  this  day. 

Long  ages  have  the  Iceland  fires 

Lit  up  the  northland  pack; 
The  viking's  hand  is  as  his  sire's  — 

Turn  back  thy  prow;  turn  back! 

For,  till  the  old  red  blood  flows  white, 
And  war-trained  eyes  are  dim, 

The  viking  cheers  at  close  of  night; 
The  triumph  is  for  him! 

—  F.H.  Costello,  in  Leslie's    Weekly. 


PATRIOTIC   POEMS  203 

CHICKAMAUGA. 


THEY  are  camped  on  Chickamauga! 

Once  again  the  white  tents  gleam 
On  that  field  where  vanished  heroes 

Sleep  the  sleep  that  knows  no  dream. 
There  are  shadows  all  about  them 

Of  the  ghostly  troops  to-day, 
But  they  light  the  common  campfire  — 

Those  who  wore  the  blue  and  gray. 

Where  the  pines  of  Georgia  tower, 

Where  the  mountains  kiss  the  sky, 
On  their  arms  the  nation's  warriors 

Wait  to  hear  the  battle  cry. 
Wait  together,  friends  and  brothers, 

And  the  heroes  'neath  their  feet 
Sleep  the  long  and  dreamless  slumber 

Where  the  flowers  are  blooming  sweet. 

Sentries,  pause,  yon  shadow  challenge ! 

Rock-ribbed  Thomas  goes  that  way  — 
He  who  fought  the  foes  unyielding 

In  that  awful  battle  fray. 
Yonder  pass  the  shades  of  heroes, 

And  they  follow  where  Bragg  leads 
Through  the  meadows  and  the  river, 

But  no  ghost  the  sentry  heeds. 

Field  of  fame,  a  patriot  army 
Treads  thy  sacred  sod  to-day! 


204  WAR-TIME   ECHOES 

And  they'll  fight  a  common  foeman, 
Those  who  wore  the  blue  and  gray, 

And  they'll  fight  for  common  country, 
And  they'll  charge  to  victory 

'Neath  the  folds  of  one  great  banner  — 
Starry  banner  of  the  free! 


They  are  camped  on  Chickamauga, 

Where  the  green  tents  of  the  dead 
Turn  the  soil  into  a  glory 

Where  a  nation's  heart  once  bled; 
But  they're  clasping  hands  together 

On  this  storied  field  of  strife  — 
Brothers  brave  who  meec  to  battle 

In  the  freedom-war  of  life! 

—  Baltimore  News. 
*   *   * 


GOOD    TIMES    A-COMIN'. 


MARSE  SAMPSON  churned  de  ocean  blue 

A-lookin'  fo'  he  dunno  who; 

From  Habana  to  Martinique, 

Lo'd,  how  he  make  dem  big  guns  speak! 


Dey  said  de '  Spanish  gone  to  Cadiz, 
If  he  cotch  dem  dey'll  go  to  Hades, 
And  dar  they'll  think  de  wedder  cool, 
To  whar  dey  felt  on  dis  footstool. 


PATRIOTIC   POEMS  205 

Ole  Massa  Dewey  beat  'em  all, 

He  run  'em  down  and  make  'em  small; 

And  in  Manila  now  dey  pray, 

(<  Lo'd,  take  Marse  Dewey  clean  away. M 

But  jes  you  wait  fo'  ole  Marse  Lee; 
He'll  show  you  somethin'  wuth  to  see; 
And  when  his  <(  corn-fed w  boys  sing  out, 
Dem  Spaniards  dey'll  go  up  de  spout. 

Sich  times  has  nebber  yet  been  seed, 
As  sho'  will  come  when  Cuba's  freed; 
Dis  niggah'll  shout  in  loud  hosannas, 
(<  Fi  cent  a  duz  f er  fat  bananas.  ? 

Wid  watemillions  cent  apiece, 
De  trade  will  run  as  slick  as  grease; 
Den  add  de  Guv'ment  pensions,  too, 
And  we'll  have  no  mo'  wuk  to  do. 

With  Miles,  Joe  Wheeler,  Fitzhugh  Lee, 

Togedder  is  a  sight  to  see, 

«Old  Glory »  in  de  lead  — we  say, 

(<  My  brederin,  sistern,  let  us  pray. w 

—  Rev.  Old  Uncle  Sctpio. 


206  WAR-TIME   ECHOES 


A    PRAYER. 


And  in  thy  majesty  ride  prosperously,  because  of 
truth  and  meekness  and  righteousness ;  and  thy  right 
hand  shall  teach  thee  terrible  things.  —  Psalm  XLV. 


ALMIGHTY  God!   eternal  source 
Of  every  arm  we  dare  to  wield, 

Be  Thine  the  thanks,  as  Thine  the  force. 
On  reeling  deck  or  stricken  field; 

The  thunder  of  the  battle  hour 

Is  but  the  whisper  of  Thy  power. 

Thine  is  our  wisdom,  Thine  our  might; 

Oh,  give  us,  more  than  strength  and  skill, 
The  calmness  born  of  sense  of  right, 

Heroic  competence  of  will 
To  keep  the  awful  tryst  with  death, 
To  know  Thee  in  the  cannon's  breath. 

By  Thee  was  given  the  thought  that  bowed 
All  hearts  upon  the  victor  deck, 

When  high  above  the  battle's  shroud 

The  white  flag  fluttered  o'er  the  wreck, 

And  Thine  the  hand  that  checked  the  cheer 

In  that  wild  hour  of  death  and  fear. 

O  Lord  of  love!   be  Thine  the  grace 
To  teach  amid  the  wrath  of  war, 

Sweet  pity  for  a  humbled  race, 

Some  thought  of  those  in  lands  afar, 

Where  sad-eyed  women  vainly  yearn 

For  those  who  never  shall  return. 


PATRIOTIC   POEMS  207 

Great  Master  of  earth's  mighty  school 
Whose  children  are  of  every  land, 

Inform  with  love  our  alien  rule, 

And  stay  us  with  Thy  warning  hand 

If,  tempted  by  imperial  greed, 

We  in  Thy  watchful  eyes  exceed, — 

That,  in  the  days  to  come,  O  Lord! 

When  we  ourselves  have  passed  away, 
And  all  are  gone  who  drew  the  sword, 

The  children  of  our  breed  may  say, 
These  were  our  sires,  who,  doubly  great, 
Could  strike  yet  spare  the  fallen  state. 

—  S.   Weir  Mitchell,  M.  D. 

*    *    * 
I 
WHEN   THE   GREAT   GRAY   SHIPS   COME   IN. 

From  Harper's  Weekly.    Copyright,  1898.    Harper  and  Brothers. 
New  York  Harbor,  August  20,  1898. 

To  EASTWARD  ringing,  to  westward  winging,  o'er  map- 
less  miles  of  sea, 

On  winds  and  tides  the  gospel  rides  that  the  further- 
most isles  are  free, 

And  the  furthermost  isles  make  answer,  harbor,  and 
height,  and  hill, 

Breaker  and  beach  cry  each  to  each,  (<  'Tis  the  Mother 
who  calls!  Be  still !  » 

Mother!  new-found,  beloved,  and  strong  to  hold  from 
harm, 

Stretching  to  these  across  the  seas  the  shield  of  her 
sovereign  arm, 


20g  WAR-TIME   ECHOES 

Who    summoned   the    guns    of   her    sailor    sons,  who 

bade  her  navies  roam, 
Who   calls   again   to   the   leagues   of  main,  and   who 

calls  them  this  time  home! 

And  the  great  gray  ships  are  silent,  and  the  weary 
watchers  rest; 

The  black  cloud  dies  in  the  August  skies,  and  deep 
in  the  golden  west 

Invisible  hands  are  limning  a  glory  of  crimson  bars, 

And  far  above  is  the  wonder  of  a  myriad  wakened 
stars ! 

Peace!  As  the  tidings  silence  the  strenuous  cannon- 
ade, 

Peace  at  last!  is  the  bugle-blast  the  length  of  the 
long  blockade, 

And  eyes  of  vigil  weary  are  lit  with  a  glad  release, 

From  ship  to  ship  and  from  lip  to  lip  it  is  <(  Peace ! 
Thank  God  for  peace ! » 

Ah,  in  the  sweet  hereafter  Columbia  still  shall  show 
The  sons  of  these,  who  swept  the  seas  how  she  bade 

them  rise  and  go, 

How,  when  the  stirring  summons  smote  on  her  chil- 
dren's ear, 
South    and    North   at   the   call    stood    forth,  and   the 

whole  land  answered  <(  Here ! }> 
For  the  soul  of  the  soldier's  story  and  the  heart  of 

the  sailor's  song 
Are  all  of  those  who  meet  their  foes  as  right  should 

meet  with  wrong, 
Who  fight  their  guns  till  the  foeman  runs,  and  then, 

on  the  decks  they  trod, 
Brave  faces  raise,  and  give  the  praise  to   the   grace 

of -their  country's  God! 


PATRIOTIC   POEMS  2O9 

Yes,  it  is  good  to  battle,  and  good  to  be  strong  and 

free, 
To  carry  the  hearts  of  a  people  to  the  uttermost  ends 

of  sea, 
To  see  the  day  steal  up  the  bay   where   the  enemy 

lies  in  wait, 
To    run    your  ship-  to  the  harbor's  lip  and  sink  her 

across  the  strait:  — 
But  better  the  golden  evening  when  the  ships  round 

head  for  home, 
And  the  long  gray  miles  slip  swiftly  past  in  a  swirl 

of  seething  foam, 
And  the  people  wait  at  the  haven's  gate  to  greet  the 

men  who  win! 
Thank  God  for  peace!     Thank  God  for  peace,  when 

the  great  gray  ships  come  in! 

—  Guy   Wetmore  Carry  L 


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THE  GERHAN-ENGLISH  BUSINESS  LETTER  WRITER. 

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THE  QUEEN'S  REIGN. 

By  Sir  WALTER  BESANT.    Price,  $2.50. 

THE  TEMPERANCE  COOK  BOOK. 

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GERMANY'S  IRON  CHANCELLOR. 

By  BRUNO  GARLEPP.  Translated  from  the  German  by  SIDNEY  WHITMAN,  F.  R.  G.  S., 
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THE  STORY  OF  CUBA. 

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PRACTICAL  LESSONS  IN  PSYCHOLOGY. 

By  WM.  O.  KROHN,  Ph.  D.,  Professor  of  Psychology  and  Pedagogy  in  the  University 
of  Illinois.  Price  $1.5O. 

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RHYME  UPON  RHYME. 

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LITTLE  FARriERS. 

By  W.  O.  KROHN,  Ph.  D.,  Professor  of  Psychology,  University  of  Illinois.  Illustrated 
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CIRCUS  DAY. 

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STORIES  FROM  HISTORY. 

By  JOHN  HAZELDEN,  historian.  Illustrated  by  John  T.  McCutcheon,  of  the  Chicago 
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BEAUTIFUL  BRITAIN. 

The  scenery  and  splendors  of  the  United  Kingdom.  Royal  residences,  palaces, 
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A  VOYAGE  IN  THE  YACHT  SUNBEAM. 

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